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THE 


POETICAL  WOEKS 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


VOLUME  II. 


UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

CIjc  iStfoenSt&e  pr«fc,  Camfcrftrge 

1881 


Copyright,  1850, 1858, 1859, 1861, 1862, 1865,  1872, 1874, 

1877, 1878,  and  1880, 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  TICKNOR,  REED  &  FIELDS, 

JAMES  K.  OSGOOD  &  Co.,  and  HOUGHTON, 

MIFFLIN  &  Co. 

Copyright,  1881, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  Co. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


iff 
)H 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (1871- 

1872). 

Homesick  in  Heaven    .......  3 

Fantasia    .        ...        .        .        .        .        .  7 

Aunt  Tabitha       ........  8 

Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts  .....  10 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series      .        .        .42 


POEMS  OP  THE  CLASS  OP  '29  (1851-1881). 
'     Bill  and  Joe      .        .        .        .:    \  ;        .        . 

A  Song  of  "  Twenty-Nine." 

Questions  and  Answers    ..... 

An  Impromptu.  .        .        ....        . 

The  Old  Man  Dreams      .        .        ... 

Remember  —  Forget   .        »        .        .        . 
Our  Indian  Summer        ..... 

Mare  Rubrum      ......        . 

The  Boys  .........        .        .        . 

Lines    .        .        ...        .        .        .        , 

A  Voice  of  the  Loyal  North     .       >  ..  '•    »  .    * 
J.  D.  R  .....        ...  ,  ,., 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union  .  .  '. 
"  Choose  you  this  Day  whom  ye  will  serve  " 
F.  W.  C. 


49 
.  51 

55 

.    56 

57 
.  59 

61 
.  63 

66 
.  68 

70 
.  72 

73 
.  76 

79 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Last  Charge          .'      .        '.        .        .        .        .82 

Our  Oldest  Friend 83 

Sherman  !s  in  Savannah     .        .        .        .        .        .85 

My  Annual 87 

All  here        .  90 

Once  more        .        ,        .        .        ...        .        .        93 

The  Old  Cruiser 97 

Hymn  for  the  Class  Meeting   .....        .        .      101 

Even-Song .        .        .102 

The  Smiling  Listener^ 106 

Our  Sweet  Singer         .  Ill 

******** 113 

What  I  have  come  for         .  .        .        .  115 

Our  Banker .        .117 

For  Class  Meeting.    .   .        .  .        .        .120 

"  Ad  Amicos "          .........        .      123 

How  not  to  Settle  it    ....        .        .        .        .  126 

The  Last  Survivor 132 

The  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias 137 

Vestigia  Quinque  Retrorsum..     .    .        .        .        .141 

The  Shadows 148 

Benjamin  Peirce  :  Astronomer,  Mathematician     .      150 

SONGS  OP  MANY  SEASONS  (1862-174). 

Opening  the  Window   .        ...        .        .        .  155 

Programme       .        .....        .        .  156 

IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 

An  Old- Year  Song        .       '.    ,    .    .   .  ;..'<..        .  .  161 

>-*  Dorothy  Q.,  a  Family  Portrait        .        .        .        .  163 

The  Organ-Blower        .        .....        .  .  166 

At  the  Pantomime ^168 

After  the  Fire      ....,..,  171 

A  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party  ....  173 

N earing  the  Snow-Line       ..      *        *    -;  *        *  .  177 


CONTENTS.  v 

PAGE 

IN  WAR  TIME. 
To  Canaan .        .181 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  I  offer  Thee  Three  Things  "    183 

Never  or  Now 185 

One  Country        .  .....  187 

I  -God  Save  the  Flag 188 

Hymn  after  the  Emancipation  Proclamation  .  .  189 
Hymn  for  the  Fair  at  Chicago  ....  190 

SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 
America  to  Russia       .        .  .     '   .        .        .  195 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  .  .  .  197 
At  the  Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  .  198 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embassy  .  .  201 
At  the  Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy  ,  .  203 
Bryant;s  Seventieth  Birthday  ....  206 

At  a  Dinner  to  General  Grant 210 

At  a  Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut    ....      212 

A  Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins    .        .         .        .        .        .214 

To  II.  W.  Longfellow       .        .        .        .        .        .215 

To  Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg      .  217 

MEMORIAL  VERSES. 

For  the  Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
June  1, 1865 223 

For  the  Commemoration  Services,  Cambridge,  July 
21, 1865 224 

Edward  Everett,  January  30, 1865  .        .        .        .      228 

Shakespeare,  Tercentennial  Celebration,  April  23, 
1864  .  .  .  .  ' 332 

In  Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware,  May  25, 1864  235 

Humboldt's  Birthday,  Centennial  Celebration,  Sep 
tember  14, 1869  .  .  ...  .  .237 

Poem  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Ilalleck  Monument, 
July  8,  1839  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  240 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  at  the  Laying  of  the  Cor- 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ner-Stone  of  Harvard  Memorial  Hall,  Cambridge, 
October  6, 1870  .  .  .  .  .  .  .242 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  Memorial  Hall,  at  Cam 
bridge,  June  23,  1874  .  .  .  .  .  .243 

Hymn  at  the  Funeral  Services  of  Charles  Sunmer, 
April  29, 1874  .  .  ...  .  .  244 

RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR. 

Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  The 
atre,  New  York,  December  3, 1873  .        .        .        .249 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  M.  D. :  an  After-Dinner  Prescrip 
tion  taken  by  the  Massachusetts  Medical  Society, 
at  their  Meeting  held  August  25, 1870         .        .      255 
Chanson  without  Music      .        .        .  .        .267 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprietors  of 

Boston  Pier,  or  the  Long  Wharf,  April  10,  1873        269 
?    A  Poem  served  to  Order  ......      272 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 275 

A  Hymn  of  Peace,  sung  at  the  "  Jubilee  '•  June  15, 
1869,  to  the  Music  of  Keller's  "  American  Hymn"  277 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (TO  1877). 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends,  August  29,  1859       .        .      281 
A  Farewell  to  Agassiz          .  .        .       -.        .  284 

A  Sea  Dialogue 288 

At  the  "  Atlantic  Dinner,-'  December  15, 1874  .        .  290 
"  Lucy."    For  her  Golden  Wedding,  October  18, 

1875 294 

Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Statue  of  Gov 
ernor  Andrew,  at  Ilingham,  October  7,  1875  .  .  295 

A  Memorial  Tribute 297 

Joseph  Warren,  M.  D ./     .301 

**•  Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle          .      301 

Old  Cambridge,  July  3,  1875 312 

Welcome  to  the  Nations,  Philadelphia,  July  4, 1876    317 
A  Familiar  Letter    .....  •      318 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

x  Unsatisfied  .        . 322 

How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet     .        .        .        .      323 

An  Appeal  for  "  the  Old  South 330 

The  First  Fan 332 

ToR.  B.  H .337 

"  The  Ship  of  State  " 339 

A  Family  Record         .        .        .       -.        .        .        .340 

FIRST  VERSES .        .      347 

THE  IRON  GATE,  AKD  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Iron  Gate *     .        .351 

My  Aviary 355 

On  the  Threshold 360 

To  George  Peabody      .        .        .        .   '     .        .        .361 

At  the  Papyrus  Club 362 

For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday    ...  364 

Two  Sonnets  :  Harvard 367 

Boston  to  Florence 368 

The  Coming  Era       .        , 369 

In  Response         .        .        .  .        .        .  371 

Post  Prandial   .        .        ....        *        .      374 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration       .        .        .  376 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke 380 

Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial  Club        .        .  382 
American  Academy  Centennial  Celebration  .        .      384 

Our  Home  — Our  Country 387 

Poem  written  for  the  Centennial  Anniversary  Din 
ner  of  the  Massachusetts  Medical  Society  .        .      390 

"  The  School-Boy 399 

The  Silent  Melody   .        ...        .        .        .      412 

NOTES 415 


POEMS 


POET  AT  THE   BREAKFAST 
TABLE. 

1871-1872. 


VOL.    II.  1 


POEMS 


POET   AT   THE   BRKL^^^ 
TABLED 


OF   THE 


'* 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 


THE    DIVINE   VOICE. 

O  seek   thine  earth-born  sisters,  —  thus 

the  Voice 
That  all  obey, — the  sad  and  silent 

three ; 

These  only,  while  the  hosts  of  heaven  rejoice, 
Smile  never  :  ask  them  what  their  sorrows  be  : 

And  when  the  secret  of  their  griefs  they  tell, 
Look  on  them  with  thy  mild,  half-human  eyes  ; 

Say  what  thou  wast  on  enrth  ;  thou  knowest  well ; 
So  shall  they  ceasi;  from  unavailing  sighs. 


4  HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  Why  thus,    apart, — the    swift-winged    herald 

spake,  — 

Sit  ye  with  silent  lips  and  unstrung  lyres 
While  the  trisagion's  blending  chords  awake 
In  shouts  of  joy  from  all  the  heavenly  choirs  ? 

THE    FIRST    SPIRIT. 

—  Chide  not  thy  sisters, —  thus  the  answer  came  ;  — 
Children  of  earth,  our  half-weaned  nature  clings 

To   earth's    fond   memories,   and    her  whispered 

name 
Untunes  our  quivering  lips,  our  saddened  strings  ; 

For  there  we  loved,  and  where  we  love  is  home, 
Home   that   our  feet   may  leave,   but  not   our 
hearts, 

Though  o'er  us  shine  the  jasper-lighted  dome  :  — 
The  chain  may  lengthen,  but  it  never  parts  ! 

Sometimes  a  sunlit  sphere  comes  rolling  by, 
And  then  we  softly  whisper,  —  can  it  be  ? 

And  leaning  toward  the  silvery  orb,  we  try 
To  hear  the  music  of  its  murmuring  sea ; 

To   catch,   perchance,   some    flashing    glimpse   of 

green, 

Or  breathe   some  wild-wood  fragrance,  wafted 
through 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN.  5 

The  opening-  gates  of  pearl,  that  fold  between 
The  blinding-  splendors  and  the  changeless  blue. 

THE    ANGEL. 

—  Nay,  sister,  nay  !  a  single  healing  leaf 

Plucked  from  the  bough  of  yon  twelve-fruited 

tree, 
Would  soothe    such    anguish,  —  deeper    stabbing 

grief 
Has  pierced  thy  throbbing  heart  — 

THE    FIRST    SPIRIT. 

—  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

I  from  my  clinging  babe  was  rudely  torn  ; 

His  tender  lips  a  loveless  bosom  pressed ; 
Can  I  forget  him  in  my  life  new  born  ? 

O  that  my  darling  lay  upon  my  breast ! 


THE    ANGEL. 

—  And  thou  ?  — 


THE    SECOND    SPIRIT. 

I  was  a  fair  and  youthful  bride, 
The  kiss  of  love  still  burns  upon  my  cheek, 
He  whom  I  worshipped,  ever  at  my  side,  — 
Him  through  the  spirit  realm  in  vain  I  seek. 

Sweet  faces  turn  their  beaming  eyes  on  mine  ; 

Ah  !  not  in  these  the  wished-for  look  I  read  ; 
Still  for  that  one  dear  human  smile  I  pine  ; 

Thou  and  none  other  !  —  is  the  lover's  creed. 


6  HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE    ANGEL. 

—  And  whence  thy  sadness  in  a  world  of  bliss 
Where  never  parting-  comes,  nor  mourner's  tear  ? 

Art  thou,  too,  dreaming  of  a  mortal's  kiss 
Amid  the  seraphs  of  the  heavenly  sphere  1 

THE    THIRD    SPIRIT. 

—  Nay,  tax  not  me  with  passion's  wasting  fire  ; 
When  the  swift  message  set  my  spirit  free, 

Blind,  helpless,  lone,  I  left  my  gray-haired  sire  ; 
My  friends  were  many,  he  had  none  save  me. 

I  left  him,  orphaned,  in  the  starless  night ; 

Alas,  for  him  no  cheerful  morning's  dawn  ! 
I  wear  the  ransomed  spirit's  robe  of  white, 

Yet  still  I  hear  him  moaning,  She  is  gone  ! 

THE    ANGEL. 

—  Ye  know  me  not,  sweet  sisters  ?  — All  in  vain 
Ye  seek  your  lost  ones  in  the  shapes  they  wore ; 

The  flower  once  opened  may  not  bud  again, 
The  fruit  once  fallen  finds  the  stem  no  more. 

Child,  lover,  sire,  —  yea,  all  things  loved  below, — 
Fair  pictures  damasked  on  a  vapor's  fold,  — 

Fade  like  the  roseate  flush,  the  golden  plow, 
When  the  bright  curtain  of  the  day  is  rolled. 

/  was  the  babe  that  slumbered  on  thy  breast. 
—  And,  sister,  mine  the  lips  that  called  thee  bride. 


FANTASIA.  7 

—  Mine  were  the  silvered  locks  thy  hand  caressed, 
That  faithful  hand,  my  faltering  footstep's  guide ! 

Each  changing  form,  frail  vesture  of  decay, 
The  soul  unclad  forgets  it  once  hath  worn, 

Stained  with  the  travel  of  the  weary  day, 
And    shamed    with   rents  from  every   wayside 
thorn. 

To  lie,  an  infant,  in  thy  fond  emhrace,  — 

To  come  with  love's  warm  kisses  back  to  thee,  — 

To  show  thine  eyes  thy  gray-haired  father's  face, 
Not  Heaven  itself  could  grant ;  this  may  not  be  ! 

Then  spread  your  folded  wings,  and  leave  to  earth 
The   dust  once   breathing  ye  have  mourned  so 
long, 

Till  Love,  new  risen,  owns  his  heavenly  birth, 
And  sorrow's  discords  sweeten  into  song  ! 


FANTASIA. 

THE   YOUNG    GIRI/S   POEM. 

ISS  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Morn, 
Blushing  into  life  new-born  ! 
Lend  me  violets  for  my  hair, 
And  thy  russet  robe  to  wear, 
And  thy  ring  of  rosiest  hue 
Set  in  drops  of  diamond  dew  ! 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

Kiss  my  cheek,  thou  noontide  ray, 
From  my  Love  so  far  away  ! 
Let  thy  splendor  streaming  down 
Turn  its  pallid  lilies  brown, 
Till  its  darkening  shades  reveal 
Where  his  passion  pressed  its  seal ! 

Kiss  my  lips,  thou  Lord  of  light, 
Kiss  my  lips  a  soft  good-night  ! 
Westward  sinks  thy  golden  car  ; 
Leave  me  but  the  evening  star, 
And  my  solace  that  shall  be, 
Borrowing  all  its  light  from  thee  ! 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

THE   YOUNG   GIRL'S   POEM. 

j|HATEVER  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me   that  is  n't   the 

way; 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers 

ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt !     If  I  only  would  take  her  advice  ! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told ; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me  —  when  I  am 
old. 


AUNT  TAB1THA.  9 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out ; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare,  — 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  must  n't  sit  there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures,  I  OAVII, 

But  it  is  n't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone  ; 

So   I  take   a   lad's   arm,  —  just  for   safety,   you 

know,  — 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  did  n't  do  so. 

How  wicked   we   are,   and   how  good   they   were 

then  ! 

They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men  ; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  —  But  stay  — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's 

day  ? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I  '11  ask  my  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma  ; 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?     Goodness  !     Who 

knows  ? 
And  what  shall  1  say,  if  a  wretch  should  propose  1 

I  am  thinking  if  Aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin, 

What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have 
been  ! 

And  her  grand-aunt  —  it  scares  me  —  how  shock 
ingly  sad 

That  we  girls  of  to  day  are  so  frightfully  bad  ! 


10      WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can ; 

Let  me  perish  —  to   rescue  some  wretched  youu<! 

man  ! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 
Auut  Tabitha  '11  tell  me  she  never  did  so  ! 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

FROM   THE    YOUNG   ASTRONOMER'S  POEM. 

I. 
AMBITION. 

[[NOTHER  clouded  night;  the  stars  are 

hid, 
The  orb   that   waits    my  search  is  hid 

with  them. 

Patience  !     Why  grudge  an  hour,  a  month,  a  year, 
To  plant  my  ladder  and  to  gain  the  round 
That  leads  my  footsteps  to  the  heaven  of  fame, 
Where  waits   the  wreath  my   sleepless  midnights 

won  "? 

Not  the  stained  laurel  such  as  heroes  wear 
That  withers  when  some  stronger  conqueror's  heel 
Treads  down  their  shrivelling  trophies  in  the  dust ; 
But  the  fair  garland  whose  undying  green 
Not  time  can  change,  nor  wrath  of  gods  or  men  ! 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       11 

With   quickened   heart-beats   I   shall    hear    the 

tongues 

That  speak  my  praise ;  but  better  far  the  sense 
That  in  the  unshaped  ages,  buried  deep 
In  the  dark  mines  of  unaccomplished  time 
Yet  to  be  stamped  with  morning's  royal  die 
And  coined  in  golden  days,  —  in  those  dim  years 
I  shall  be  reckoned  with  the  undying  dead, 
My  name  emblazoned  on  the  fiery  arch, 
Unfading  till  the  stars  themselves  shall  fade. 
Then,  as  they  call  the  roll  of  shining  worlds, 
Sages  of  race  unborn  in  accents  new 
Shall  count  me  with  the  Olympian  ones  of  old, 
Whose  glories  kindle  through  the  midnight  sky  : 
Here  glows  the  God  of  Battles ;  this  recalls 
The  Lord  of  Ocean,  and  yon  far-off  sphere 
The  Sire  of  Him  who  gave  his  ancient  name 
To  the  dim  planet  with  the  wondrous  rings  ; 
Here  flames  the  Queen  of  Beauty's  silver  lamp, 
And  there  the  moon-girt  orb  of  mighty  Jove  ; 
But  this,  unseen  through  all  earth's  osons  past, 
A  youth  who  watched  beneath  the  western  star 
Sought   in  the   darkness,   found,   and   showed   to 

men ; 

Linked  with  his  name  thenceforth  and  evermore  ! 
So  shall  that  name  be  syllabled  anew 
In  all  the  tongues  of  all  the  tribes  of  men  : 
I  that  have  been  through  immemorial  years 
Dust  in  the  dust  of  my  forgotten  time 
Shall  live  in  accents  shaped  of  blood-warm  breath, 
Yea,  rise  in  mortal  semblance,  newly  born 


12       WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

In  shining  stone,  in  undecaying  bronze, 
And  stand  on  high,  and  look  serenely  down 
On  the  new  race  that  calls  the  earth  its  own. 

Is  this  a  cloud,  that,  blown  athwart  my  soul, 
Wears  a  false  seeming  of  the  pearly  stain 
Where  worlds  beyond  the  world  their  mingling 

rays 

Blend  in  soft  white,  —  a  clond  that,  born  of  earth, 
Would  cheat   the  soul  that  looks  for  light  from 

heaven  *? 

Must  every  coral-insect  leave  his  sign 
On  each  poor  grain  he  lent  to  build  the  reef, 
As  Babel's  builders  stamped  their  sunburnt  clay, 
Or  deem  his  patient  service  all  in  vain  ? 
What  if  another  sit  beneath  the  shade 
Of  the  broad  elm  I  planted  by  the  way,  — 
What  if  another  heed  the  beacon  light 
I  set  upon  the  rock  that  wrecked  my  keel, — 
Have  I  not  done  my  task  and  served  my  kind  1 
Nay,  rather  act  thy  part,  unnamed,  unknown, 
And  let  Fame  blow  her  trumpet  through  the  world 
With  noisy  wind  to  swell  a  fool's  renown, 
Joined  with  some  truth  he  stumbled  blindly  o'er, 
Or  coupled  with  some  single  shining  deed 
That  in  the  great  account  of  all  his  days 
Will  stand  alone  upon  the  bankrupt  sheet 
His  pitying  angel  shows  the  clerk  of  heaven. 
The  noblest  service  comes  from  nameless  hands, 
And  the  bust  servant  does  his  work  unseen. 
Who  found  the  seeds  of  lire  and  made  them  shoot, 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.     13 

Fed  by  his  breath,  in  buds  and  flowers  of  flame  ? 
Who  forged  in  roaring  flames  the  ponderous  stone, 
And  shaped  the  moulded  metal  to  his  need  ? 
Who  gave  the  dragging  car  its  rolling  wheel, 
And  tamed  the  steed  that  whirls  its  circling  round  ? 
All   these    have    left    their   work    and    not   their 

names,  — 

Why  should  I  murmur  at  a  fate  like  theirs  ? 
This  is  the  heavenly  light ;  the  pearly  stain 
Was  but  a  wind-cloud  drifting  o'er  the  stars  ! 


II. 

REGRETS. 

BRIEF  glimpses  of  the  bright  celestial  spheres, 
False  lights,  false  shadows,  vague,  uncertain  gleams, 
Pale  vaporous  mists,  wan  streaks  of  lurid  flame, 
The  climbing  of  the  upward-sailing  cloud, 
The  sinking  of  the  downward-falling  star,  — 
All  these  are  pictures  of  the  changing  moods 
Borne  through  the  midnight  stillness  of  my  soul. 

Here  am  I,  bound  upon  this  pillared  rock, 
Prey  to  the  vulture  of  a  vast  desire 
That  feeds  upon  my  life.     I  burst  my  bands 
And  steal  a  moment's  freedom  from  the  beak, 
The  clinging  talons  and  the  shadowing  plumes  ; 
Then  comes  the  false  enchantress,  with  her  song  : 


14       WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

"  Thou  wouldst  not  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust 
Like  the  base  herd  that  feeds  and  breeds  and  dies ! 
Lo,  the  fair  garlands  that  I  weave  for  thee, 
Unchanging  as  the  belt  Orion  wears, 
Bright  as  the  jewels  of  the  seven-starred  Crown, 
The  spangled  stream  of  Berenice's  hair ! " 
And  so  she  twines  the  fetters  with  the  flowers 
Around  my  yielding  limbs,  and  the  fierce  bird 
Stoops  to  his  quarry,  —  then  to  feed  his  rage 
Of  ravening  hunger  I  must  drain  my  blood 
And  let  the  dew-drenched,  poison-breeding  night 
Steal  all  the  freshness  from  my  fading  cheek, 
And  leave  its  shadows  round  my  caverned  eyes. 
All  for  a  line  in  some  unheeded  scroll ; 
All  for  a  stone  that  tells  to  gaping  clowns, 
"  Here  lies  a  restless  wretch  beneath  a  clod 
Where   squats    the   jealous   nightmare  men    call 
Fame  ! " 

I  marvel  not  at  him  who  scorns  his  kind 
And  thinks  not  sadly  of  the  time  foretold 
When  the  old  hulk  we  tread  shall  be  a  wreck, 
A  slag,  a  cinder  drifting  through  the  sky 
Without  its  crew  of  fools  !     We  live  too  long 
And  even  so  are  not  content  to  die, 
But  load  the  mould  that  covers  up  our  bones 
With  stones  that  stand  like  beggars  by  the  road 
And   show   death's   grievous  wound   and    ask  for 

tears ; 

Write  our  great  books  to  teach  men  who  we  are, 
Sing  our  fine  songs  that  tell  in  artful  phrase 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       15 

The  secrets  of  our  lives,  and  plead  and  pray 
For  alms  of  memory  with  the  after  time,  — 
Those  few  swift  seasons  while  the  earth  shall  wear 
Its  leafy  summers,  ere  its  core  grows  cold 
And  the  moist  life  of  all  that  breathes  shall  die ; 
Or  as  the  new-born  seer,  perchance  more  wise, 
Would  have  us  deem,  before  its  growing  mass, 
Pelted  with  star-dust,  stoned  with  meteor-balls, 
Heats  like  a  hammered  anvil,  till  at  last 
Man  and  his  works  and  all  that  stirred  itself 
Of  its  own  motion,  in  the  fiery  glow 
Turns  to  a  flaming  vapor,  and  our  orb 
Shines  a  new  sun  for  earths  that  shall  be  born. 

I  am  as  old  as  Egypt  to  myself, 

Brother  to  them  that  squared  the  pyramids 

By  the  same  stars  I  watch.     I  read  the  page 

Where  every  letter  is  a  glittering  world, 

With  them  who  looked  from  Shinar's  clay-built 

towers, 

Ere  yet  the  wanderer  of  the  Midland  sea 
Had  missed  the  fallen  sister  of  the  seven. 
I  dwell  in  spaces  vague,  remote,  unknown, 
Save  to  the  silent  few,  who,  leaving  earth, 
Quit  all  communion  with  their  living  time. 
I  lose  myself  in  that  ethereal  void, 
Till  I  have  tired  my  wings  and  long  to  fill 
My  breast  with  denser  air,  to  stand,  to  walk 
With  eyes  not  raised  above  my  fellow-men. 
Sick  of  my  uii walled,  solitary  realm, 
I  ask  to  change  the  myriad  lifeless  worlds 


16        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

I  visit  as  mine  own  for  one  poor  patch 
Of  this  dull  spheroid  and  a  little  breath 
To  shape  in  word  or  deed  to  serve  my  kind. 
Was  ever  giant's  dungeon  dug  so  deep, 
Was  ever  tyrant's  fetter  forged  so  strong, 
Was  e'er  such  deadly  poison  in  the  draught 
The  false  wife  mingles  for  the  trusting  fool, 
As  he  whose  willing  victim  is  himself, 
Digs,  forges,  mingles,  for  his  captive  soul  ? 


IIL 

SYMPATHIES. 

THE  snows  that  glittered  on  the  disk  of  Mars 

Have  melted,  and  the  planet's  fiery  orb 

Rolls  in  the  crimson  summer  of  its  year; 

But  what  to  me  the  summer  or  the  snow 

Of  worlds  that  throb  with  life  in  forms  unknown, 

If  life  indeed  be  theirs  ;  I  heed  not  these. 

My  heart  is  simply  human  ;  all  my  care 

.For  them  whose  dust  is  fashioned  like  mine  own  ; 

These  ache  with  cold  and  hunger,  live  in  pain, 

And  shake  with  fear  of  worlds  more  full  of  woe ; 

There  may  be  others  worthier  of  my  love, 

But  such  I  know  not  save  through  these  I  know. 

There  are  two  veils  of  language,  hid  beneath 
Whose  sheltering  folds,  we  dare  to  be  ourselves ; 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       17 

And  not  that  other  self  which  nods  and  smiles 
And  babbles  in  our  name  ;  the  one  is  Prayer, 
Lending  its  licensed  freedom  to  the  tongue 
That  tells  our  sorrows  and  our  sins  to  Heaven  ; 
The  other,  Verse,  that  throws  its  spangled  web 
Around  our  naked  speech  and  makes  it  bold. 
I,  whose  best  prayer  is  silence  ;  sitting  dumb 
In  the  great  temple  where  I  nightly  serve 
Him  who  is  throned  in  light,  have  dared  to  claim 
The  poet's  franchise,  though  I  may  not  hope 
To  wear  his  garland ;  hear  me  while  I  tell 
My  story  in  such  form  as  poets  use, 
But  breathed  in  fitful  whispers,  as  the  wrind 
Sighs  and  then  slumbers,  wakes  and  sighs  again. 

Thou  Vision,  floating  in  the  breathless  air 

Between  me  and  the  fairest  of  the  stars, 

I  tell  my  lonely  thoughts  as  unto  thee. 

Look  not  for  marvels  of  the  scholar's  pen 

In  my  rude  measure  ;  I  can  only  show 

A  slender-margined,  uiiillumiued  page, 

And  trust  its  meaning  to  the  flattering  eye 

That  reads  it  in  the  gracious  light  of  love. 

Ah,  wouldst  thou  clothe  thyself  in  breathing  shape 

And  nestle  at  my  side,  my  voice  should  lend 

Whatever  my  verse  may  lack  of  tender  rhythm 

To  make  thee  listen. 

I  have  stood  entranced 

When,  with  her  fingers  wandering  o'er  the  keys, 
The  white  enchantress  with  the  golden  hair 
VOL.  u.  2 


18        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

Breathed   all    her    soul   through    some   unvalued 

rhyme  ; 

Some  flower  of  song  that  long  had  lost  its  bloom ; 
Lo  !  its  dead  summer  kindled  as  she  sang  ! 
The  sweet  contralto,  like  the  ringdove's  coo, 
Thrilled  it  with  brooding,  fond,  caressing  tones, 
And  the  pale  minstrel's  passion  lived  again, 
Tearful  and  trembling  as  a  dewy  rose 
The  wind  has  shaken  till  it  fills  the  air 
With   light   and   fragrance.     Such   the  wondrous 

charm 

A  song  can  borrow  when  the  bosom  throbs 
That  lends  it  breath. 

So  from  the  poet's  lips 

His  verse  sounds  doubly  sweet,  for  none  like  him 
Feels  every  cadence  of  its  wave-like  flow ; 
He  lives  the  passion  over,  while  he  reads, 
That  shook  him  as  he  sang  his  lofty  strain, 
And  pours  his  life  through  each  resounding  line, 
As  ocean,  when  the  stormy  winds  are  hushed, 
Still  rolls  and  thunders  through  his  billowy  caves. 


IV. 

MASTER  AND  SCIIOLAK. 

LET  me  retrace  the  record  of  the  years 

That  made  me  what  I  am.     A  man  most  wise, 

But  overworn  with  toil  and  bent  with  age, 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       19 

Sought  me  to  be  his  scholar,  —  me,  run  wild 
From  books  and  teachers,  — kindled  in  my  soul 
The  love  of  knowledge  ;  led  me  to  his  tower, 
Showed  me  the  wonders  of  the  midnight  realm 
His  hollow  sceptre  ruled,  or  seemed  to  rule, 
Taught  me  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  spheres, 
Trained  me  to  find  the  glimmering  specks  of  light 
Beyond  the  unaided  sense,  and  on  my  chart 
To  string  them  one  by  one,  in  order  due, 
As  on  a  rosary  a  saint  his  beads. 
I  was  his  only  scholar  ;  I  became 
The  echo  to  his  thought ;  whatever  lie  knew 
Was  mine  for  asking  ;  so  from  year  to  year 
We  wrought  together,  till  there  came  a  time 
When  I,  the  learner,  was  the  master  half 
Of  the  twinned  being  in  the  dome-crowned  tower. 

Minds  roll  in  paths  like  planets  ;  they  revolve 
This  in  a  larger,  that  a  narrower  ring, 
But  round  they  come  at  last  to  that  same  phase, 
That  selfsame  light  and  shade  they  showed  before. 
I  learned  his  annual  and  his  monthly  tale, 
His  weekly  axiom  and  his  daily  phrase, 
I  felt  them  coming  in  the  laden  air, 
And  watched  them  laboring  up  to  vocal  breath, 
Even  as  the  first-born  at  his  father's  board 
Knows  ere  he  speaks  the  too  familiar  jest 
Is  on  its  way,  by  some  mysterious  sign 
Forewarned,  the  click  before  the  striking  bell. 

He  shrivelled  as  I  spread  my  growing  leaves, 
Till  trust  and  reverence  changed  to  pitying  care; 


20        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  /STAR-DRIFTS. 

He  lived  for  me  in  what  he  once  had  been, 

But  I  for  him,  a  shadow,  a  defence, 

The  guardian  of  his  fame,  his  guide,  his  btaff, 

Leaned  on  so  long  he  fell  if  left  alone. 

I  was  his  eye,  his  ear,  his  cunning  hand, 

Love  was  my  spur  and  longing  after  fame, 

But  his  the  goading  thorn  of  sleepless  age 

That    sees    its    shortening   span,   its   lengthening 

shades, 

That  clutches  what  it  may  with  eager  grasp, 
And  drops  at  last  with  empty,  outstretched  hand-. 
All   this   he    dreamed   not.     He  would    sit  him 

down 

Thinking  to  work  his  problems  as  of  old, 
And  find  the  star  he  thought  so  plain  a  blur, 
The  columned  figures  labyrinthine  wilds 
Without  my  comment,  blind  and  senseless  scrawls 
That  vexed  him  with  their  riddles  ;  he  would  strive 
And  struggle  for  a  while,  and  then  his  eye 
Would  lose  its  light,  and  over  all  his  mind 
The  cold  gray  mist  would  settle  ;  and  erelong 
The  darkness  fell,  and  I  was  left  alone. 


V. 

ALONE. 

ALONE  !  no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff, 
No  Arctic  venturer  on  the  waveless  sea; 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       21 

Feels  the  dread  stillness  round  him  as  it  chills 
The  heart  of  him  who  leaves  the  slumbering1  earth 
To  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd  the  sky. 

Alone  !     And  as  the  shepherd  leaves  his  flock 
To  feed  upon  the  hillside,  he  meanwhile 
Finds  converse  in  the  warblings  of  the  pipe 
Himself  lias  fashioned  for  his  vacant  hour, 
So  have  I  grown  companion  to  myself, 
And  to  the  wandering  spirits  of  the  air 
That  smile  and  whisper  round  us  in  our  dreams. 
Thus  have  I  learned  to  search  if  I  may  know 
rl  he  whence  and  why  of  all  beneath  the  stars 
And  all  beyond  them,  and  to  weigh  my  life 
As  in  a  balance, —  poising  good  and  ill 
Against  each  other,  —  asking  of  the  Power 
That  flung  me  forth  among  the  whirling  worlds, 
If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 
Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 
That  every  wind  may  blow  where'er  it  will. 


VI. 

QUESTIONING. 

I  AM  not  humble  ;  I  was  shown  my  place, 
Clad  in  such  robes  as  Nature  had  at  hand  ; 
Took  what  she  gave,  not  chose  ;  I  know  no  shame, 
No  fear  for  being  simply  what  I  am. 


22        WJND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

I  am  not  proud,  I  hold  my  every  breath 

At  Nature's  mercy.     I  am  as  a  babe 

Borne  in  a  giant's  arms,  he  knows  not  where ; 

Each  several  heart-heat,  counted  like  the  coin 

A  miser  reckons,  is  a  special  gift 

As  from  an  unseen  hand  ;  if  that  withhold 

Its  bounty  for  a  moment,  I  am  left 

A  clod  upon  the  earth  to  which  I  fall. 

Something  I  find  in  me  that  well  might  claim 

The  love  of  beings  in  a  sphere  above 

This  doubtful  twilight  world  of  right  and  wrong  ; 

Something  that  shows  me  of  the  selfsame  clay 

That  creeps  or  swims  or  flies  in  humblest  form. 

Had  I  been  asked,  before  I  left  my  bed 

Of  shapeless  dust,  what  clothing  I  would  wear, 

I  would  have  said,  More  angel  and  less  worm; 

But  for  their  sake  who  are  even  such  as  I, 

Of  the  same  mingled  blood,  I  would  not  choose 

To  hate  that  meaner  portion  of  myself 

Which  makes  me  brother  to  the  least  of  men. 

I  dare  not  be  a  coward  with  my  lips 

Who  dare  to  question  all  things  in  my  soul ; 

Some  men  may  find  their  wisdom  on  their  knees, 

Some  prone  and  grovelling  in  the  dust  like  slaves  ; 

Let  the  meek  glowworm  glisten  in  the  dew ; 

I  ask  to  lift  my  taper  to  the  sky 

As  they  who  hold  their  lamps  above  their  heads, 

Trusting  the  larger  currents  up  aloft, 

Rather  than  crossing  eddies  round  their  breast, 

Threatening  with  every  puff  the  flickering  blaze. 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       23 

My  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce  ! 

This  is  my  homage  to  the  mightier  powers, 

To  ask  my  boldest  question,  undismayed 

By  muttered  threats  that  some  hysteric  sense 

Of  wrong  or  insult  will  convulse  the  throne 

Where  wisdom  reigns  supreme ;  and  if  I  err, 

They  all  must  err  who  have  to  feel  their  way 

As  bats  that  fly  at  noon  ;  for  what  are  we 

But  creatures  of  the  night,  dragged  fortli  by  day, 

Who  needs  must   stumble,  and  with  stammering 

steps, 
Spell  out  their  paths  in  syllables  of  pain  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  hold  in  scorn  the  child  who  dares 
Look  up  to  Thee,  the  Father,  —  dares  to  ask 
More  than  Thy  wisdom  answers.     From  Thy  hand 
The  worlds  were  cast ;  yet  every  leaflet  claims 
From  that  same  hand  its  little  shining  sphere 
Of  star-lit  dew  ;  thine  image,  the  great  sun, 
(Jilt  with  his  mantle  of  tempestuous  flame, 
Glares  in  mid-heaven  ;  but  to  his  noontide  blaze 
The  slender  violet  lifts  its  lidless  eye, 
And  from  his  splendor  steals  its  fairest  hue, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  from  his  scorching  fire. 


VII. 
WORSHIP. 

FROM  my  lone  turret  as  I  look  around 
O'er  the  green  meadows  to  the  ring  of  blue, 


24       WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

From  slope,  from  summit,  and  from  half  hid  vale 
The  sky  is  stabbed  with  dagger-pointed  spires, 
Their  gilded  symbols  whirling  in  the  wind, 
Their  brazen  tongues  proclaiming  to  the  world, 
"  Here  truth  is  sold,  the  only  genuine  ware  ; 
See  that  it  has  our  trade-mark !     You  will  buy 
Poison  instead  of  food  across  the  way, 

The  lies  of "  this  or  that,  each  several  name 

The  standard's  blazon  and  the  battle-cry 

Of  some  true-gospel  faction,  and  again 

The  token  of  the  Beast  to  all  beside. 

And  grouped  round  each  I  see  a  huddling  crowd 

Alike  in  all  things  save  the  words  they  use ; 

In  love,  in  longing,  hate  and  fear  the  same. 

Whom  do  we  trust  and  serve  ?     We  speak  of 

one 

And  bow  to  many  ;  Athens  still  would  find 
The  shrines  of  all  she  worshipped  safe  within 
Our  tall  barbarian  temples,  and  the  thrones 
That  crowned  Olympus  mighty  as  of  old. 
The  god  of  music  rules  the  Sabbath  choir ; 
The  lyric  muse  must  leave  the  sacred  nine 
To  help  us  please  the  dilettante's  ear; 
Plutus  limps  homeward  with  us,  as  we  leave 
The  portals  of  the  temple  where  we  knelt 
And  listened  while  the  god  of  eloquence 
(Hermes  of  ancient  days,  but  now  disguised 
In  sable  vestments)  with  that  other  god 
Somnus,  the  son  of  Erebus  and  Nox, 
Fights  in  un  qu.il  contest  for  rur  souls ; 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       25 

The  dreadful  sovereign  of  the  under  world 
Still  shakes  his  sceptre  at  us,  and  we  hear 
The  buying  of  the  triple-throated  hound  ; 
Eros  is  young  as  ever,  and  as  fair 
The  lovely  Goddess  born  of  ocean's  foam. 

These  be  thy  gods,  O  Israel !     Who  is  he, 
The  one  ye  name  and  tell  us  that  ye  serve, 
Whom  ye  would  call  me  from  my  lonely  tower 
To  worship  with  the  many-headed  throng  ? 
Is  it  the  God  that  walked  in  Eden's  grove 
In  the  cool  hour  to  seek  our  guilty  sire  ? 
The  God  who  dealt  with  Abraham  as  the  sons 
Of  that  old  patriarch  deal  with  other  men  ? 
The  jealous  God  of  Moses,  one  who  feels 
An  image  as  an  insult,  and  is  wroth 
With  him  who  made  it  and  his  child  unborn? 
The  God  who  plagued  his  people  for  the  sin 
Of  their  adulterous  king,  beloved  of  him,  — 
The  same  who  offers  to  a  chosen  few 
The  right  to  praise  him  in  eternal  song 
While  a  vast  shrieking  world  of  endless  woe 
lilends  its  dread  chorus  with  their  rapturous  hymn  ? 
Is  this  the  God  ye  mean,  or  is  it  he 
Who  heeds  the  sparrow's  fall,  whose  loving  heart 
Is  as  the  pitying  father's  to  his  child, 
Whose  lesson  to  his  children  is  "Forgive," 
Whose  plea  for  all/"  They  know  not  what  they 
do"? 


26        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

VIII. 
MANHOOD. 

I  CLAIM  the  right  of  knowing  whom  I  serve, 
Else  is  my  service  idle  ;  He  that  asks 
My  homage  asks  it  from  a  reasoning  soul. 
To  crawl  is  not  to  worship ;  we  have  learned 
A  drill  of  eyelids,  bended  neck  and  knee, 
Hanging  our  prayers  on  hinges,  till  we  ape 
The  flexures  of  the  many-jointed  worm. 
Asia  has  taught  her  Allahs  and  salaams 
To  the  world's  children,  —  we  have  grown  to  men  ! 
We  who  have  rolled  the  sphere  beneath  our  feet 
To  find  a  virgin  forest,  as  we  lay 
The  beams  of  our  rude  temple,  first  of  all 
Must  frame  its  doorway  high  enough  for  man 
To  pass  unstooping  ;  knowing  as  we  do 
That  He  who  shaped  us  last  of  living  forms 
Has  long  enough  been  served  by  creeping  things, 
Reptiles  that  left  their  footprints  in  the  sand 
Of  old  sea-margins  that  have  turned  to  stone, 
And  men  who  learned  their  ritual ;  we  demand 
To  know  him  first,  then  trust  him  and  then  love 
When  we  have  found  him  worthy  of  our  love, 
Tried  by  our  own  poor  hearts  and  not  before  ; 
He  must  be  truer  than  the  truest  friend, 
He  must  be  tenderer  than  a  woman's  love, 
A  father  better  than  the  best  of  sires  ; 
Kinder  than  she  who  bore  us,  though  we  sin 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       27 

Oftener  than  did  the  brother  we  are  told, 
We,  —  poor  ill-tempered  mortals,  — must  forgive, 
Though  seven   times  sinning   threescore  times  and 
ten. 

This  is  the  new  world's  gospel :  Be  ye  men  ! 
Try  well  the  legends  of  the  children's  time  ; 
Ye  are  the  chosen  people,  God  has  led 
Your  steps  across  the  desert  of  the  deep 
As  now  across  the  desert  of  the  shore ; 
Mountains  are  cleft  before  you  as  the  sea 
Before  the  wandering  tribe  of  Israel's  sons ; 
Still  onward  rolls  the  thunderous  caravan, 
Its  coming  printed  on  the  western  sky, 
A  cloud  by  day,  by  night  a  pillared  flame ; 
Your  prophets  are  a  hundred  unto  one 
Of    them    of    old    who   cried,    "  Thus    saith  the 

Lord  "  ; 

They  told  of  cities  that  should  fall  in  heaps, 
But  yours  of  mightier  cities  that  shall  rise 
Where  yet  the  lonely  fishers  spread  their  nets, 
Where  hides  the  fox  and  hoots  the  midnight  owl; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  in  your  garden  grows 
Not  single,  but  at  every  humble  door  ; 
Its  branches  lend  you  their  immortal  food, 
That  fiils  you  with  the  sense  of  what  ye  are, 
No  servants  of  an  altar  hewed  and  carved 
From  senseless  stone  by  craft  of  human  hands, 
Kabbi,  or  dervish,  brahmin,  bishop,  bonze, 
But  masters  of  the  charm  with  which  they  work 
To  keep  your  hands  from  that  forbidden  tree ! 


28        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

Ye  that  have  tasted  that  divinest  frnit, 
Look  on  this  \vorld  of  yours  with  opened  eyes  ! 
Ye  are  as  gods  !     Nay,  make  rs  of  your  gods,  — 
Each  day  ye  break  an  image  in  your  shrine 
And  plant  a  fairer  image  where  it  stood  : 
Where  is  the  Moloch  of  your  fathers'  creed, 
Whose    fires    of    torment     burned    for    spaulong 

babes  ? 

Fit  object  for  a  tender  mother's  love  ! 
Why  not  ?     It  was  a  bargain  duly  made 
For  these  same  infants  through  the  surety's  act 
Intrusted  with  their  all  for  earth  and  heaven, 
By  Him  who  chose  their  guardian,  knowing  well 
Ilis  fitness  for  the  task,  —  this,  even  this, 
Was  the  true  doctrine  only  yesterday      % 
As  thoughts  are  reckoned,  —  and  to-day  yon  hear 
In  words  that  sound  as  if  from  human  tongues 
Those  monstrous,  uncouth  horrors  of  the  past 
That  blot  the  blue  of  heaven  and  shame  the  earth 
As  would  the  saurians  of  the  age  of  slime, 
Awaking  from  their  stony  sepulchres 
And  wallowing  hateful  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 


IX. 

RIGHTS. 

WHAT  am  I  but  the  creature  Thou  hast  made  * 
What  have  I  save  the  blessings  Thou  hast  lent  ? 
What  hope  I  but  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  love  ? 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       29 

Who  but  myself  shall  cloud  my  soul  with  fear? 
Whose  hand  protect  me  from  myself  but  Thine  ? 

I  claim  the  rights  of  weakness,  I,  the  babe, 
Call  on  my  sire  to  shield  me  from  the  ills 
That  still  beset  my  path,  not  trying  me 
With  snares  beyond  my  wisdom  or  my  strength, 
He  knowing  I  shall  use  them  to  my  harm, 
And  find  a  tenfold  misery  in  the  sense 
That  in  my  childlike  folly  I  have  sprung 
The  trap  upon  myself  as  vermin  use 
Drawn  by  the  cunning  bait  to  certain  doom. 
Who  wrought  the  wondrous  charm  that  leads  us 

on 

To  sweet  perdition,  but  the  selfsame  power 
That  set  the  fearful  engine  to  destroy 
His  wretched  offspring  (as  the  Rabbis  tell), 
And  hid  its  yawning  jaws  and  treacherous  springs 
In  such  a  show  of  innocent  sweet  flowers 
It  lured  the  sinless  angels  and  they  fell  1 

Ah !  He  who  prayed  the  prayer  of  all  mankind 
Summed    in   those  few  brief  words  the  mightiest 

plea 

For  erring  souls  before  the  courts  of  heaven, — 
Save  us  from  being  tempted,  lest  we  fall  ! 

If  we  are  only  as  the  potter's  clay 
Made  to  be  fashioned  as  the  artist  wills, 
And  broken  into  shards  if  we  offend 
The  eye  of  Him  who  made  us,  it  is  well ; 
Such  love  as  the  insensate  lump  of  clay 
That  spins  upon  the  swift-revolving  wheel 


30        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

Bears  to  the  hand  that  shapes  its  growing  form,  — 
Such  love,  no  more,  will  be  our  hearts'  return 
To  the  great  Master-workman  for  his  care,  — 
Or  would  be,  save  that  this,  our  breathing  clay, 
Is  intertwined  with  fine  innumerous  threads 
That  make  it  conscious  in  its  framer's  hand  ; 
And  this  He  must  remember  who  has  tilled 
These  vessels  with  the  deadly  draught  of  life,  — 
Life,  that  means  death  to  all  it  claims.     Our  love 
Must  kindle  in  the  ray  that  streams  from  heaven, 
A  faint  reflection  of  the  light  divine  ; 
The  sun  must  warm  the  earth  before  the  rose 
Can  show  her  inmost  heart-leaves  to  the  sun. 

He  yields  some  fraction  of  the  Maker's  right 
Who  gives  the  quivering  nerve  its  sense  of  pain  ; 
Is  there  not  something  in  the  pleading  eye 
Of  the  poor  brute  that  suffers,  which  arraigns 
The  law  that  bids  it  suffer  ?     Has  it  not 
A  claim  for  some  remembrance  in  the  book 
That  fills  its  pages  with  the  idle  words 
Spoken  of  men  ?     Or  is  it  only  clay, 
Bleeding  and  aching  in  the  potter's  hand, 
Yet  all  his  own  to  treat  it  as  he  will 
And  when  he  will  to  cast  it  at  his  feet, 
Shattered,  dishonored,  lost  forevermore  ? 
My  dog  loves  me,  but  could  he  look  beyond 
His  earthly  master,  would  his  love  extend 
To  Him  who —    Hush  !  I  will  not  doubt  that  He 
Is  better  than  our  fears,  and  will  not  wrong 
The  least,  the  meanest  of  created  things  ! 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       31 

He  would  riot  trust  me  with  the  smallest  orb 

That  circles  through  the  sky  ;  he  would  not  give 

A  meteor  to  my  guidance  ;  would  not  leave 

The  coloring  of  a  cloudlet  to  my  hand ; 

He  locks  my  beating  heart  beneath  its  bars 

And  keeps  the  key  himself ;  he  measures  out 

The  draughts  of  vital  breath  that  warm  my  blood, 

Winds  up  the  springs  of  instinct  which  uncoil, 

Each  in  its  season ;  ties  me  to  my  home, 

My  race,  my  time,  my  nation,  and  my  creed 

So  closdy  that  if  I  but  slip  my  wrist 

Out  of  the  band  that  cuts  it  to  the  bone, 

Men  say,  "  He  hath  a  devil  "  ;  he  has  lent 

All  that  I  hold  in  trust,  as  unto  one 

By  reason  of  his  weakness  and  his  years 

Not  fit  to  hold  the  smallest  shred  in  fee 

Of  those  most  common  things  he  calls  his  own  — 

And  yet  —  my  Rabbi  tells  me  —  lie  has  left 

The  care  of  that  to  which  a  million  worlds 

Filled  with  unconscious  life  were  less  than  naught, 

Has  left  that  mighty  universe,  the  Soul, 

To  the  weak  guidance  of  our  baby  hands, 

Let  the  foul  fiends  have  access  at  their  will, 

Taking  the  shape  of  angels,  to  our  hearts,  — 

Our  hearts  already  poisoned  through  and  through 

With  the  fierce  virus  of  ancestral  sin ; 

Turned  us  adrift  with  our  immortal  charge, 

To  wreck  ourselves  in  gulfs  of  endless  woe. 

If  what  my  Rabbi  tells  me  is  the  truth 

Why  did  the  choir  of  angels  sing  for  joy  ? 

Heaven  must  be  compassed  in  a  narrow  space, 


32        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

And  offer  more  tlwn  room  enough  for  all 
That  pass  its  portals ;   but  the  under-world, 
The  godless  realm,  the  place  where  demons  forge 
Their  fiery  darts  and  adamantine  chains, 
Must  swarm  with  ghosts  that  for  a  little  while 
Had  worn  the  garb  of  flesh,  and  being  heirs 
Of  all  the  dulness  of  their  stolid  t-ires, 
And  all  the  erring  instincts  of  their  tribe, 
Nature's  own  teaching,  rudiments  of  "sin," 
Fell  headlong  in  the  snare  that  could  not  fail 
To  trap  the  wretched  creatures  shaped  of  tlay 
And  cursed  with  sense  enough  to  lose  their  souls  ! 

Brother,  thy  heart  is  troubled  at  my  word  ; 
Sister,  I  see  the  cloud  is  on  thy  brow. 
He  will  not  blame  me,  He  who  sends  not  peace, 
But  tends  a  sword,  and  bids  us  strike  amain 
At  Error's  gilded  crest,  where  in  the  van 
Of  earth's  great  army,  mingling  with  the  best 
And  bravest  of  its  leaders,  shouting  loud 
The  battle-cries  that  yesterday  have  led 
The  host  of  Truth  to  victory,  but  to  day 
Are  watchwords  of  the  laggard  and  the  slave, 
He  leads  his  dazzled  cohorts.     God  has  made 
This  world  a  strife  of  atoms  and  of  spheres  ; 
With  every  breath  I  sigh  myself  away 
And  take  my  tribute  from  the  wandering  wind 
To  fan  the  flame  of  life's  consuming  fire  ; 
So,  while  my  thought  has  life,  it  needs  must  burn, 
And  burning,  set  the  stubble-fields  ablaze, 
Where  all  the  harvest  long  ago  was  reaped 
And  safely  garnered  in  the  ancient  barns, 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       33 

But  still  the  gleaners,  groping  for  their  food, 
Go  blindly  feeling  through  the  close-shorn  straw, 
While  the  young  reapers  flash  their  glittering  steel 
'Where  later  suns  have  ripened  nobler  grain  ! 


X. 

TRUTHS. 

THE  time  is  racked  with  birth-pangs ;  every  hour 
Brings  forth  some  gasping  truth,  and  truth  new 
born 

Looks  a  misshapen  and  untimely  growth, 
The  terror  of  the  household  and  its  shame, 
A  monster  coiling  in  its  nurse's  lap 
That  some  would  strangle,  some  would  only  starve ; 
But  still  it  breathes,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
And  suckled  at  a  hundred  half -clad  breasts, 
Comes  slowly  to  its  stature  and  its  form, 
Calms  the  rough  ridges  of  its  dragon-scales, 
Changes  to  shining  locks  its  snaky  hair, 
And  moves  transfigured  into  angel  guise, 
Welcomed  by  all  that  cursed  its  hour  of  birth, 
And  folded  in  the  same  encircling  arms 
That  cast  it  like  a  serpent  from  their  hold  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  live  in  honor,  die  in  peace, 
Have  the  fine  words  the  marble-workers  learn 
To  carve  so  well,  upon  thy  funeral-stone, 
And  earn  a  fair  obituary,  dressed 

VOL.  n.  3 


34        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

In  all  the  many-colored  robes  of  praise, 

Be  deafer  than  the  adder  to  the  cry 

Of  that  same  foundling  truth,  until  it  grows 

To  seemly  favor,  and  at  length  has  won 

The  smiles  of  hard-mouthed  men  and  light-lipped 

dames ; 

Then  snatch  it  from  its  meagre  nurse's  breast, 
Fold  it  in  silk  and  give  it  food  from  gold ; 
So  shalt  thou  share  its  glory  when  at  last 
It  drops*  its  mortal  vesture,  and  revealed 
In  all  the  splendor  of  its  heavenly  form, 
Spreads  on  the  startled  air  its  mighty  wings  ! 

Alas  !  how  much  that  seemed  immortal  truth 
That  heroes  fought  for,  martyrs  died  to  save, 
Reveals  its  earth-born  lineage,  growing  old 
And  limping  in  its  march,  its  wings  unplumed, 
Its  heavenly  semblance  faded  like  a  dream  ! 

Here  in  this  painted  casket,  ju^t  unsealed, 
Lies  what  was  once  a  breathing  shape  like  thine, 
Once  loved  as  thou  art  loved ;  there  beamed  the 

eyes 

That  looked  on  Memphis  in  its  hour  of  pride, 
That  saw  the  walls  of  hundred-gated  Thebes, 
And  all  the  mirrored  glories  of  the  Nile. 
See  how  they  toiled  that  all-cons-uming  time 
Might  leave  the  frame  immortal  in  its  tomb ; 
Filled  it  with  fragrant  balms  and  odorous  gums 
That  still  diffuse  their  sweetness  through  the  air, 
And  wound  and  wound  with  patient  fold  on  fold 
The  flaxen  bands  thy  hand  has  rudely  torn  ! 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       35 

Perchance  thou  yet  canst  see  the  faded  stain 
Of  the  sad  mourner's  tear. 


XI. 

IDOLS. 

BUT  what  is  this  ? 

The  sacred  beetle,  bound  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  blind  heathen  !     Snatch  the  curious  prize, 
Give  it  a  place  among  thy  treasured  spoils 
Fossil  and  relic,  —  corals,  encrinites, 
The  fly  in  amber  and  the  tish  in  stone, 
The  twisted  circlet  of  Etruscan  gold, 
Medal,  intaglio,  poniard,  poison-ring,  — 
Place  for  the  Memphiau  beetle  with  thine  hoard  ! 

Ah  !  longer  than  thy  creed  has  blest  the  world 
This  toy,  thus  ravished  from  thy  brother's  breast, 
Was  to  the  heart  of  Mizraim  as  divine, 
As  holy,  as  the  symbol  that  we  lay 
On  the  still  bosom  of  our  white-robed  dead, 
And  raise  above  their  dust  that  all  may  know 
Here  sleeps  an  heir  of  glory.     Loving  friends, 
With  tears  of  trembling  faith  and  choking  sobs, 
And  prayers  to  those  who  judge  of  mortal  deeds, 
Wrapped  this  poor  image  in  the  cerement's  fold 
That  Isis  and  Osiris,  friends  of  man, 
Might   know  their  own  and  claim  the  ransomed 
soul. 


3G        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

An  idol  ?     Man  was  born  to  worship  such  ! 
An  idol  is  an  image  of  his  thought ; 
Sometimes  he  carves  it  out  of  gleaming-  stone, 
And  sometimes  moulds  it  out  of  glittering  gold, 
Or  rounds  it  in  a  mighty  frescoed  dome, 
Or  lifts  it  heavenward  in  a  lofty  spire, 
Or  shapes  it  in  a  cunning  frame  of  words, 
Or  pays  his  priest  to  make  it  day  by  day; 
For  sense  must  have  its  god  as  well  as  soul ; 
A  new-born  Dian  calls  for  silver  shrines, 
And  Egypt's  holiest  symbol  is  our  own, 
The  sign  we  worship  as  did  they  of  old 
When  Isis  and  Osiris  ruled  the  world. 

Let  us  be  true  to  our  most  subtle  selves, 
We  long  to  have  our  idols  like  the  rest. 
Think !  when  the  men  of  Israel  had  their  God 
Encamped  among  them,  talking  with  their  chief, 
Leading  them  in  the  pillar  of  the  cloud 
And  watching  o'er  them  in  the  shaft  of  fire, 
They  still  must  have  an  image  ;  still  they  longed 
For  somewhat  of  substantial,  solid  form 
Whereon  to  hang  their  garlands,  and  to  fix 
Their  wandering   thoughts  and  gain   a   stronger 

hold 

For  their  uncertain  faith,  not  yet  assured 
If  those  same  meteors  of  the  day  and  night 
Were  not  mere  exhalations  of  the  soil. 

Are  we  less  earthly  than  the  chosen  race  ? 
Are  we  more  neighbors  of  the  living  God 
Than  they  who  gathered  manna  every  morn, 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       37 

Reaping  where  none  had  sown,  and  heard  the  voice 
Of  him  who  met  the  Highest  in  the  mount, 
And  brought  them  tables,  graven  with  His  hand  ? 
Yet  these  must  have  their  idol,  brought  their  gold, 
That  star-browed  Apis  might  be  god  again  ; 
Yea,  from  their  ears  the  women  brake  the  rings 
That  lent  such  splendors  to  the  gypsy  brown 
Of  sunburnt  cheeks,  — what  more  could  woman  do 
To  show  her  pious  zeal  ?     They  went  astray, 
But  nature  led  them  as  it  leads  us  all. 

We  too,  who  mock  at  Israel's  golden  calf 
And  scoff  at  Egypt's  sacred  scarabee, 
Would  have  our  amulets  to  clasp  and  kiss, 
And  flood  with  rapturous  tears,  and  bear  with  us 
To  be  our  dear  companions  in  the  dust ; 
Such  magic  works  an  image  in  our  souls  ! 

Man  is  an  embryo  ;  see  at  twenty  years 
His  bones,  the  columns  that  uphold  his  frame 
Not  yet  cemented,  shaft  and  capital, 
Mere  fragments  of  the  temple  incomplete. 
At  twoscore,  threescore,  is  he  then  full  grown  ? 
Nay,  still  a  child,  and  as  the  little  maids 
Dress  and  undress  their  puppets,  so  he  tries 
To  dress  a  lifeless  creed,  as  if  it  lived, 
And    change    its   raiment   when   the   world   cries 
shame ! 

We  smile  to  see  our  little  ones  at  play 
So  grave,  so  thoughtful,  with  maternal  care 
Nursing  the  wisps  of  rags  they  call  their  babes  ;  — 
Does  He  not  smile  who  sees  us  with  the  toys 


38        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

We  call  by  sacred  names,  and  idly  feign 
To  be  what  we  have  called  them  ?     He  is  still 
The  Father  of  this  helpless  nursery-brood, 
Whose  second  childhood  joins  so  close  its  fir^t, 
That  in  the  crowding,  hurrying  years  between 
We  scarce  have  trained  our  senses  to  their  task 
Before  the  gathering  mist  has  dimmed  our  eyes, 
And  with  our  hollowed  palm  we  help  our  ear, 
And    trace    with    trembling    hand    our   wrinkled 

names, 

And  then  begin  to  tell  our  stories  o'er, 
And  see  —  not  hear  —  the  whispering  lips  that 

say, 
"  You  know ?  Your  father  knew  him.  —  This 

is  he, 

Tottering  and  leaning  on  the  hireling's  arm,"  — 
And  so,  at  length,  disrobed  of  all  that  clad 
The  simple  life  we  share  with  weed  and  worm, 
Go  to  our  cradles,  naked  as  we  came. 


XII. 

LOVE. 

WHAT  if  a  soul  redeemed,  a  spirit  that  loved 
While  yet  on  earth  and  was  beloved  in  turn, 
And  still  remembered  every  look  and  tone 
Of  that  dear  earthly  sister  who  was  left 
Among  the  unwise  virgins  at  the  gate,  — 
Itself  admitted  with  the  bridegroom's  train,  — 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       39 

What  if  this  spirit  redeemed,  amid  the  host 

Of  chanting  angels,  in  some  transient  lull 

Of  the  eternal  anthem,  heard  the  cry 

Of  its  lost  darling,  whom  in  evil  hour 

Some  wilder  pulse  of  nature  led  astray 

And  left  an  outcast  in  a  world  of  fire, 

Condemned  to  be  the  sport  of  cruel  fiends, 

Sleepless,  unpitying,  masters  of  the  skill 

To  wring  the  maddest  ecstasies  of  pain 

From  worn-out  souls  that  only  ask  to  die,  — 

Would  it  not  long  to. leave  the  bliss  of  heaven,  — 

Bearing  a  little  water  in  its  hand 

To  moisten  those  poor  lips  that  plead  in  vain 

With  Him  we  call  our  Father  ?     Or  is  all 

So  changed  in  such  as  taste  celestial  joy 

They  hear  unmoved  the  endless  wail  of  woe ; 

The  daughter  in  the  same  dear  tones  that  hushed 

Her  cradled  slumbers  ;  she  who  once  had  held 

A  babe  upon  her  bosom  from  its  voice 

Hoarse  with  its  cry  of  anguish,  yet  the  same  ? 

No !  not  in  ages  when  the  Dreadful  Bird 
Stamped    his   huge  footprints,   and    the    Fearful 

Beast 

Strode  with  the  flesh  about  those  fossil  bones 
We  build  to  mimic  life  with  pygmy  hands,  — 
Not  in  those  earliest  days  when  men  ran  wild 
And  gashed  each  other  with  their  knives  of  stone, 
When  their  low  foreheads  bulged  in  ridgy  brows 
And  their  flat  hands  were  callous  in  the  palm 
With  walking  in  the  fashion  of  their  sires, 


40        WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

Grope  as  they  might  to  find  a  cruel  god 
To  work  their  will  on  such  as  human  wrath 
Had  wrought  its  worst  to  torture,  and  had  left 
With  rage  unsated,  white  and  stark  and  cold, 
Could  hate  have  shaped  a  demon  more  malign 
Than  him  the  dead  men  mummied  in  their  creed 
And  taught  their  trembling  children  to  adore  ! 

Made  in  his  image  !     Sweet  and  gracious  souls 
Dear  to  my  heart  by  nature's  fondest  names, 
Is  not  your  memory  still  the  precious  mould 
That  lends  its  form  to  Him  who  hears  my  prayer  ! 
Thus  only  I  behold  him,  like  to  them, 
Long-suffering,  gentle,  ever  slow  to  wrath, 
If  wrath  it  be  that  only  wounds  to  heal, 
Ready  to  meet  the  wanderer  ere  he  reach 
The  door  he  seeks,  forgetful  of  his  sin, 
Longing  to  clasp  him  in  a  father's  arms, 
And  seal  his  pardon  with  a  pitying  tear  ! 

Four  gospels  tell  their  story  to  mankind, 
And  none  so  full  of  soft,  caressing  words 
That  bring  the  Maid  of  Bethlehem  and  her  Babe 
Before  our  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  his  who  learned 
In  the  meek  service  of  his  gracious  art 
The  tones  which,  like  the  medicinal  balms 
That  calm  the  sufferer's  anguish,  soothe  our  souls. 
—  O  that  the  loving  woman,  she  who  sat 
So  long  a  listener  at  her  Master's  feet, 
Had  left  us  Mary's  Gospel,  —  all  she  heard 
Too  sweet,  too  subtle  for  the  ear  of  m;m  ! 
Mark  how  the  tender-hearted  mothers  read 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS.       41 

The  messages  of  love  between  the  lines 

Of  the  same  page  that  loads  the  bitter  tongue 

Of  him  who  deals  in  terror  as  his  trade, 

With  threatening  words  of  wrath  that  scorch  like 

flame  ! 

They  tell  of  angels  whispering  round  the  bed 
Of  the  sweet  infant  smiling  in  its  dream, 
Of  lambs  enfolded  in  the  Shepherd's  arms, 
Of  Him  who  blessed  the  children;  of  the  land 
Where  crystal  rivers  feed  unfading  flowers, 
Of  cities  golden-paved  with  streets  of  pearl, 
Of  the  white  robes  the  winged  creatures  wear, 
The   crowns    and    harps   from   whose    melodious 

strings 
One  long,  sweet  anthem  flows  forevermore  ! 

—  We  too  had  human  mothers,  even  as  Thou, 
Whom  we  have  learned  to  worship  as  remote 
From  mortal  kindred,  wast  a  cradled  babe. 
The  milk  of  woman  filled  our  branching  veins, 
She  lulled  us  with  her  tender  nursery-song, 
And  folded  round  us  her  untiring  arms, 
While  the  first  unrernembered  twilight  year 
Shaped  us  to  conscious  being ;  still  we  feel 
Her  pulses  in  our  own,  —  too  faintly  feel ; 
Would    that    the   heart   of  woman   warmed  our 

creeds  ! 

Not  from  the  sad  eyed  hermit's  lonely  cell, 
Not  from  the  conclave  where  the  holy  men 
Glare  on  each  other,  us  with  angry  eyes 
They  battle  for  God's  glory  and  their  own, 


42  .       EPILOGUE. 

Till,  sick  of  wordy  strife,  a  show  of  hands 
Fixes  the  faith  of  ages  yet  unborn,  — 
Ah,  not  from  these  the  listening  soul  can  hear 
The  Father's  voice  that  speaks  itself  divine  ! 
Love  must  be  still  our  Master  ;  till  we  learn 
What  he  can  teach  us  of  a  woman's  heart, 
We  know  not  His,  whose  love  embraces  all. 


EPILOGUE  TO   THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 
SERIES. 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR  —  POET. 
AT   A   BOOKSTORE. 

Anno  Domini  1972. 

CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door  ; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rowrs 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 

The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs  and  strays 

Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 

(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 

YOUR  CHOICE  AMONG  THESE  BOOKS,  1  DIME] 

Ho  !  dealer  ;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take ; 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 


EPILOGUE.  43 

Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 

I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 

But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 

Though  Hamlet  pah  !  'd,  and  dropped  his  skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain !  The  sky  grows  dark,  — 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  ?     Hark  ! 

The  shop  affords  a  safe  retreat, 

A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 

The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 

(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book), 

The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — 

I  '11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 

What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf  ? 
A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself  ! 
For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 
The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 
Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 
One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 
The  voice  assures  us,  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down  ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  selfsame  parent  own ; 
Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays, 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "  I  'm  the  rose  !  " 


44  EPILOGUE. 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page  ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage ; 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  ? 

Read,  flattered,  honored  ?     Who  shall  say  ? 

Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 

To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 

Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 

And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 

Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 

The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

Where  passion  throbs,  where  friendship  glows, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 

Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 

And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 

For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 

Its  flame,  its  ashes,  —  all  are  mine  ! 

And  thon,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 


EPILOGUE. 

Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 

Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I'll  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you,  —  perhaps,  —  some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain  !    Price  one  dime  ! 


45 


UNIVERSITY 


POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29. 

1851-1877. 


POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29. 

1851-1877. 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

OME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 

The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 

When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare  ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 

VOL.  n.  4 


50  BILL   AND  JOE. 

With  H  O  N.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  off  tliey  go  !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  ?     How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe  ; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe  ; 
You  've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain  ; 
You  Ve  made  the  dead  past  live  again  : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  I 
Mad,  poor  old  boys  !   That  's  what  it  means/ 
And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe  !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 
A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame  ; 
A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe  ? 


A  SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE."         51 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill  ;  — 

'T  is  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you,  Bill !  " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears ; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe  ? 

No  matter  ;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear  ; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hicjacet  Joe.     Uicjacet  Bill. 


1851. 
A  SONG  OF  "TWENTY-NINE." 


HE  summer  dawn  is  breaking 
On  Auburn's  tangled  bowers 
The  golden  light  is  waking 
On  Harvard's  ancient  towers  ; 


52         A   SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE." 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky 
That  must  see  us  do  or  die, 
Ere  it  shine  on  the  line 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29. 

At  last  the  day  is  ended, 

The  tutor  screws  no  more, 
By  doubt  and  fear  attended 
Each  hovers  round  the  door, 
Till  the  good  old  Prases  cries, 
While  the  tears  stand  in  his  eyes, 
"  You  have  passed,  and  are  classed 
With  the  BOYS  OF  '29." 

Not  long  are  they  in  making 

The  college  halls  their  own, 
Instead  of  standing  shaking, 
Too  bashful  to  be  known  ; 
But  they  kick  the  Seniors'  shins 
Ere  the  second  week  begins, 
When  they  stray  in  the  way 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29. 

If  a  jolly  set  is  trolling 

The  last  Der  Freischutz  airs, 
Or  a  "cannon  bullet"  rolling 
Conies  bouncing  down  the  stairs, 
The  tutors  looking  out, 
Sigh,  "  Alas  !  there  is  no  doubt, 
'T  is  the  noise  of  the  Boys 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 


A  SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE."         53 

Four  happy  years  together, 

By  storm  and  sunshine  tried, 
In  changing  wind  and  weather, 
They  rough  it  side  by  side, 
Till  they  hear  their  Mother  cry, 
"  You  are  fledged,  and  you  must  fly," 
And  the  bell  tolls  the  knell 
Of  the-days  of  '29. 

Si::' -a  then  in  peace  or  trouble, 
Full  many  a  year  has  rolled, 
And  life  has  counted  double 
The  days  that  then  we  told  ; 
Yet  we  '11  end  as  we  've  begun, 
For  though  scattered,  we  are  one, 
While  each  year  ksees  us  here, 
Round  the  board  of  '29. 

Though  fate  may  throw  between  us 

The  mountains  or  the  sea, 
No  time  shall  ever  wean  us, 
No  distance  set  us  free  ; 

But  around  the  yearly  board, 
When  the  flaming  pledge  is  poured, 
It  shall  claim  every  name 
On  the  roll  of  '29. 

To  yonder  peaceful  ocean 

That  glows  with  sunset  fires, 
Shall  reach  the  warm  emotion 

This  welcome  day  inspires, 


54        A   SONG   OF  "TWENTY-NINE." 

Beyond  the  ridges  cold 
Where  a  brother  toils  for  gold 
Till  it  shine  through  the  mine 
Round  the  BOY  OF  '29. 

If  one  whom  fate  has  broken 
Shall  lift  a  moistened  eye, 
We  11  say,  before  he  's  spoken  — 
"  Old  Classmate,  don't  you  cry  ! 
Here,  take  the  purse  I  hold. 
There  's  a  tear  upon  the  gold  — 
It  was  mine  —  it  is  thine  — 
A'n't  we  BOYS  OF  '29  ? " 

As  nearer  still  and  nearer 
The  fatal  stars  appear, 
The  living  shall  be  dearer 
With  each  encircling  year, 
Till  a  few  old  men  shall  say 
"  We  remember  't  is  the  day  — 
Let  it  pass  with  a  glass 
For  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

As  one  by  one  is  falling 

Beneath  the  leaves  or  snows, 
Each  memory  still  recalling, 
The  broken  ring  shall  close, 
Till  the  night  winds  softly  pass 
O'er  the  green  and  growing  grass, 
Where  it  waves  on  the  graves 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29  ! 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS.          55 

1852, 
QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS. 

HERE,  O  where  are  the  visions  of  morn 
ing, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warn 
ing* 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  O  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers,  — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 

Where  the  gray  eolts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone,  like  our  friend  TroSas  GOKVS  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 

Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 
Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 

How  ye  have  faded  away ! 


56  -AN  IMPROMPTU. 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty  river 
Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 

Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  forever, 
Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 


1853. 
AN  IMPROMPTU. 

Not  premeditated. 


HE  clock  has  struck  noon  ;  ere  it  thrice 

tell  the  hours 
We   shall   meet  round   the    table    that 

blushes  with  flowers, 
And  I  shall  blush  deeper  with  shame-driven  blood 
That  I  came  to  the  banquet  and  brought  not  a  bud. 

Who  cares  that  his  verse  is  a  beggar  in  art 

If  you  see  through  its  rags  the  full  throb  of  his 

heart  ? 

Who  asks  if  his  comrade  is  battered  and  tanned 
When  he  feels  his  warm  soul  in  the  clasp  of  his 

hand  ? 


No  !  be  it  an  epic,  or  be  it  a  line, 

The  Boys  will  all  love  it  because  it  is  mine ; 

I  sung  their  last  song  on  the  morn  of  the  day 

That  tore  from  their  lives  the  last  blossom  of  May. 

It  is  not  the  sunset  that  glows  in  the  wine, 

But  the  smile  that  beams  over  it,  makes  it  divine  ; 


THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  57 

I  scatter  these  drops,  and  behold,  as  they  fall, 
The  day-star  of  memory  shiiies  through  them  all ! 

And  these  are  the  last ;  they  are  drops  that  I  stole 
From  a  wine-press  that  crushes  the  life  from  the 

soul, 
But  they  ran  through  my  heart  and  they  sprang  to 

my  brain 
Till  our    twentieth  sweet    summer  was    smiling 

again ! 


1854. 
THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

FOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 
I'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 

Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 


Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age ! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 


58  THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

"  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 
Without  thee  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 
I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  ! " 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too  ! 

"And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Kemember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years." 

"  Why  yes  ;  "  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys ; 
"  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 
I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys." 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 
"  Why  this  will  never  do ; 


REMEMBER— FORGET.  59 

The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  father  too  !  " 


And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


1855. 
REMEMBER  —  FORGET. 

ND  what  shall  be  the  song  to-night, 

If  song  there  needs  must  be  ? 
If  every  year  that  brings  us  here 
Must  steal  an  hour  from  me  ? 
Say,  shall  it  ring  a  merry  peal, 

Or  heave  a  mourning  sigh 
O'er  shadows  cast,  by  years  long  past, 
On  moments  flitting  by  ? 

Nay,  take  the  first  unbidden  line 

The  idle  hour  may  send, 
No  studied  grace  can  mend  fche  face 

That  smiles  as  friend  on  friend  ; 
The  balsam  oozes  from  the  pine, 

The  sweetness  from  the  rose, 
And  so,  unsought,  a  kindly  thought 

Finds  language  as  it  flows. 


60  REMEMBER  —  FORGET. 

The  years  rush  by  in  sounding  flight, 

I  hear  their  ceaseless  wings  ; 
Their  songs  I  hear,  some  far,  some  near, 

And  thus  the  burden  rings  : 
"  The  morn  has  fled,  the  noon  has  past, 

The  sun  will  soon  be  set, 
The  twilight  fade  to  midnight  shade  ; 

Remember  —  and  Forget !  " 

Remember  all  that  time  has  brought  — 

The  starry  hope  on  high, 
The  strength  attained,  the  courage  gained, 

The  love  that  cannot  die. 
Forget  the  bitter,  brooding  thought,  — 

The  word  too  harshly  said, 
The  living  blame  love  hates  to  name, 

The  frailties  of  the  dead  ! 

We  have  been  younger,  so  they  say, 

But  let  the  seasons  roll, 
He  doth  not  lack  an  almanac 

Whose  youth  is  in  his  soul. 
The  snows  may  clog  life's  iron  track, 

But  does  the  axle  tire, 
While  bearing  swift  through  bank  and  drift 

The  engine's  heart  of  fire  ? 

I  lift  a  goblet  in  my  hand; 

If  good  old  wine  it  hold, 
An  ancient  skin  to  keep  it  in 

Is  just  the  thing,  we  're  told. 


OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER.  61 

We  're  grayer  than  the  dusty  flask,  — 

We  're  older  than  our  wine  ; 
Our  corks  reveal  the  "  white  top  "  seal, 

The  stamp  of  '29. 

Ah,  Boys  !  we  clustered  in  the  dawn, 

To  sever  in  the  dark  ; 
A  merry  crew,  with  loud  halloo, 

We  climbed  our  painted  bark  ; 
We  sailed  her  through  the  four  years'  cruise, 

We  '11  sail  her  to  the  last, 
Our  dear  old  flag,  though  but  a  rag, 

Still  flying  on  her  mast. 

So  gliding  on,  each  winter's  gale 

Shall  pipe  us  all  on  deck, 
Till,  faint  and  few,  the  gathering  crew 

Creep  o'er  the  parting  wreck, 
Her  sails  and  streamers  spread  aloft 

To  fortune's  rain  or  shine, 
Till  storm  or  sun  shall  all  be  one, 

And  down  goes  TWENTY-NINE  ! 


1856. 
OUR  INDIAN   SUMMER. 

OU  'LL  believe  me,  dear   boys,  't  is  a 

pleasure  to  rise, 

With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  dar 
ling  old  eyes ; 


62  OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear  the  same 

tone, 
Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years  that  have 

flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in  the  wall, 
My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight  of  you 

all; 

If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on  the  sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in  my  hand. 

There  are  noontides  of  autumn  when  summer  re 
turns, 

Though  the  leaves  are  all  garnered  and  sealed  in 
their  urns, 

And  the  bird  on  his  perch  that  was  silent  so  long, 

Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks  into  song. 

We  have  caged  the  young  birds  of  our  beautiful 

June ; 
Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their  voices  in 

tune  ; 

One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like  these 
And  they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the  green-growing 

trees. 

The  voices  of  morning !  how  sweet  is  their  thrill 
When  the  shadows  have  turned,  and  the  evening 

grows  still ! 

The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with  age, 
But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twentieth  page! 


MARE  RUBRUlf.  63 

Look  off  from  your  goblet  and  up  from  your  plate ; 
Come,  take  the  last  journal,  and  glance  at  its  date  : 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say  and  should 

do, 
If  the  6  were  a  9  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah,  no !  for  the  shapes  that  would  meet  with  us 

here, 

From  the  far  land  of  shadows,  are  ever  too  dear  ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride  and  its 

charms, 
We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we  clasped  in  our 

arms. 

A  health  to  our  future  —  a  sigh  for  our  past, 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the  last ; 
And  for  all  the  base  lies  that  the  almanacs  hold, 
While  we  've  youth  in  our  hearts  we  can  never 
grow  old ! 


1858. 
MARE  RUBRUM, 

LASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine, 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days, 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 
Seen    flaming    through    its    crimson 
blaze ! 


64  MARE  RUBRUM. 

The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade, 
But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 

By  nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream  ! 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay, 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die,  — 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  beauty  !     Time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  shape  nor  feature  may  withstand  ; 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand  ; 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 


MARE  RUBRUM.  65 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall  ; 
Here  rest,  their  keen  vibrations  mute, 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed, 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  haunted  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew  ? 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  ? 

Nay  !  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine, 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled,  by  winter's  snow  ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee  ! 

VOL.  II.  5 


66  THE  BOYS. 

1859. 
THE   BOYS. 

there  any  old  fello\v  got  mixed  with 

the  boys  ? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  mak 
ing  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and   the  Catalogue's 

spite ! 
Old  time  is  a  liar !     We  're  twenty  to-night ! 

We  're  twenty  !    We  're  twenty  !    Who  says  we 

are  more  ? 
He 's  tipsy,  —  young  jackanapes  !  —  show  him  the 

door ! 
"  Gray  temples  at  .twenty  ?  "  —  Yes  !   white  if  we 

please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there  's  nothing 

can  freeze ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?    Excuse  the  mistake  \ 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have 

shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have 

been  told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  :  — 


THE  BOYS.  67 

That  boy  we   call    "  Doctor/'   and   this  we  call 

"Judge;" 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "  Speaker/'  —  the  one  on  the 
right ; 

"Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to 
night  ? 

That's  our  "Member  of  Congress/'  we  say  when 
we  chaff ; 

There  's  the  "  Reverend  "  What 's  his  name  1  — 
don't  make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 
And  the  HOYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true ! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in ;  a  good  joke  it  was, 
too! 

There 's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker 

brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain ; 
When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 
We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he  's  "  The 

Squire." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith  ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the 

free,  — 
i  Just  read  on  his  medal,  "My  country,"  "of  thee!" 


08  LINES. 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  —  You  think  he  's  all 

fun ; 
But  the   angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has 

done; 

The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest 

of  all ! 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or 

with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we  ever  be 

men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and 

gay, 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  1 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  THE  BOYS  ! 


1860. 
LINES. 

'M  ashamed,  —  that 's  the  fact,  —  it 's  a 

pitiful  case,  — 
Won't  any  kind  classmate  %et  up  in  my 

place  ? 


LINES.  69 

Just  remember  how  often  I  Ve  risen  before,  — 
I  blush  as  I  straighten  my  legs  on  the  floor ! 

There  are  stories,  once  pleasing,  too  many  times 
told,  — 

There  are  beauties  once  charming,  too  fearfully 
old,  — 

There  are  voices  we  Ve  heard  till  we  know  them 
so  well, 

Though  fioy  talked  for  an  hour  they  'd  have  noth 
ing  to  tell. 

Yet,  Classmates !   Friends  !   Brothers !  dear  blessed 

old  boys ! 

Made  one  by  a  lifetime  of  sorrows  and  joys. 
What  lips   have   such   sounds   as  the   poorest  of 

these, 
Though  honeyed,  like  Plato's,  by  musical  bees  ? 

What  voice  is  so  sweet  and  what  greeting  so  dear 
As  the  simple,  warm  welcome  that  waits  for  us 

here? 

The  love  of  our  boyhood  still  breathes  in  its  tone, 
And  our  hearts  throb  the  answer,  "  He  's  one  of 

our  own  ! " 

Nay  !  count  not  our  numbers  ;  some  sixty  we  know, 
But  these  are  above,  and  those  under  the  snow; 
And  thoughts  are  still  mingled  wherever  we  meet 
For  those  we  remember  with  those  that  we  greet. 


70       A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH. 

We  have  rolled  on  life's  journey,  —  how  fast  and 

how  far  ! 

One  round  of  humanity's  many-wheeled  car, 
But  up  hill  and  down-hill,  through  rattle  and  rub, 
Old,   true   Twenty-nmers !    we  Ve    stuck    to    our 

hub! 

While  a  brain  lives  to  think,  or  a  bosom  to  feel, 
We  will  cling  to  it  still  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel ! 
And  age,  as  it  chills  us,  shall  fasten  the  tire 
That  youth  fitted  round  in  his  circle  of  fire  ! 


1861. 

(JANUARY  SD.) 
A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH. 

E  sing  "  Our  Country's  "  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye  ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky  ; 
We  '11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set  ; 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine 
We  have  a  Country  yet.      » 

'T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons  ; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns  ; 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH.        71 

He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn  ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave ; 
Enough  of  speech  !  the  trumpet  rings; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm  ! 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame ; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt ; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt ; 
*T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 
,     The  truth  forgot  so  long  ; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong ! 


72  J.  D.  R. 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek 

"  We  played  with  Northern  fire  !  " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den  ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right ! 

God  keep  us  all !    Amen  ! 


1862. 
* 

J.  D.  K. 

HE  friends  that   are,   and   friends  that 

were, 

What  shallow  waves  divide  ! 
I  miss  the  form  for  many  a  year 
Still  stated  at  my  side. 


I  miss  him,  yet  I  feel  him  still 
Amidst  our  faithful  band, 

As  if  not  death  itself  could  chill 
The  warmth  of  friendship's  hand. 

His  story  other  lips  may  tell,  — 
For  me  the  veil  is  drawn  ; 

I  only  know  he  loved  me  well, 
He  loved  me  —  and  is  gone  ! 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION.   73 

1862. 
VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION.   - 

IS    midnight  :    through    my     troubled 

dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry  ; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail 
A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 

What  name  ?  Where  bound  1  —  The  rocks  around 
Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 

—  The  good  ship  Union,  Southward  bound  : 
God  help  her  and  her  crew  ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay !  look  aloft  !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark ! 
May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

—  O  landsman,  these  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 


74    VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION. 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save  ! 

O  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow  ! 

—  Enough  !  what  more  shall  honor  claim? 
I  know  the  sacred  sign  ; 

Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 
Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 

Lies  low  along  her  lee, 
Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  ! 

Still  on  !  Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  Rebel  cruiser  scars  ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 

—  But  watch  the  light  on  yonder  height,  — 
Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 

Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 
Whose  sentinels  look  down 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION.   75 

From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "  sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ? Fort  Monroe  ! 

The  breakers  roar,  —  how  bears  the  shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured  its  rays 

Along  the  Hatteras  sands. 
—  Ha !  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow  ! 

Again  the  shoals  display 
The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 

The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows, 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose  shadow  palls  these  orphaned  walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 

What !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war- ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 


76  CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY. 

As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 
Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 

On  !  on  !     Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee  ! 
/  The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gales, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the  keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings : 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore, — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore  ! 


1863. 

'  CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY  WHOM  YE 
WILL   SERVE." 

ES,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while 

you  hate 

The  self-ruling,  chain-breaking,  throne- 
shaking  State  ! 


CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY.  77 

The  night-birds  dread  morning,  —  your  instinct  is 

true,  — 
The  day-star  of  Freedom  brings  midnight  for  you  ! 

Why  plead  with  the  deaf  for  the  cause  of  man 
kind  ? 

The  owl  hoots  at  noon  that  the  eagle  is  blind ! 

We  ask  not  your  reasons,  —  't  were  wasting-  our 
time,  — 

Our  life  is  a  menace,  our  welfare  a  crime  ! 

We  have  battles  to  fight,  we  have  foes  to  subdue,  — 
Time  waits  not  for  us,  and  we  wait  not  for  you  ! 
The   mower   mows    on,   though    the    adder    may 

writhe 
And  the  copper-head  coil  round  the  blade  of  his 

scythe  ! 

"No  sides  in  this  quarrel,"  your  statesmen  may 

urge, 
Of  school-house  and  wages   with    slave-pen    and 

scourge ! — 

No  sides  in  the  quarrel  !  proclaim  it  as  well 
To  the  angels  that  fight  with  the  legions  of  hell ! 

They  kneel  in  God's  temple,  the  North  and  the 
South, 

With  blood  on  each  weapon  and  prayers  in  each 
mouth. 

Whose  cry  shall  be  answered  ?  Ye  Heavens,  at 
tend 

The  lords  of  the  lash  as  their  voices  ascend ! 


78  CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY. 

"  O  Lord,  we  arc  shaped  in  the  image  of  Thee,  — 
Smite  down  the  base  millions  that  claim  to  be  free, 
And  lend  Thy  strong  arm  to  the  soft-handed  race 
Who  eat  not  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  their  face !  " 

So  pleads  the  proud   planter.     What  echoes  are 

these  ? 

The  bay  of  his  bloodhound  is  borne  on  the  breeze, 
And,  lost  in  the  shriek  of  his  victim's  despair, 
His    voice    dies    unheard.  —  Hear    the    Puritan's 

prayer ! 

"  O   Lord,   that   didst  smother  mankind  in   Thy 

flood, 

The  sun  is  as  sackcloth,  the  moon  is  as  blood, 
The  stars  fall  to  earth  as  untimely  are  cast 
The  figs  from  the  fig-tree  that  shakes  in  the  blast ! 

"  All  nations,  all  tribes  in  whose  nostrils  is  breath, 
Stand  gazing  at  Sin  as  she  travails  with  Death  ! 
Lord,  strangle  the  monster  that  struggles  to  birth, 
Or  mock  us  no   more   with    Thy   'Kingdom   on 
Earth ! 1 

"  If  Ammon  and  Moab  must  reign  in  the  land 
Thou  gavest  Thine  Israel,  fresh  from  Thy  hand, 
Call  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  out  of  their  graves 
To  be  the  new  gods  for  the  empire  of  slaves  ! " 

Whose  God  will  ye  serve,  O  ye  rulers  of  men  ? 
Will  ye  build  you  new  shrines  in  the  slave-breeder's 
den? 


F.  w.  a  79 

Or  bow  with  the  children  of  light,  as  they  call 
On  the  Judge  of  the  Earth  and  the  Father  of  All  ? 

Choose   wisely,   choose    quickly,   for  time    moves 

apace,  — 

Each  day  is  an  age  in  the  life  of  our  race  ! 
Lord,  lead  them  in  love,  ere  they  hasten  in  fear 
From  the   fast-rising  flood   that  shall  girdle  the 

sphere  ! 


1864. 

* 
F.  W.   C. 

AST  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring 

The  hour  of  fate  to  those  we  love, 
Each  pearl  that  leaves  the  broken  string 

Is  set  in  Friendship's  crown  above. 
As  narrower  grows  the  earthly  chain, 

The  circle  widens  in  the  sky  ; 
These  are  our  treasures  that  remain, 
But  those  are  stars  that  beam  on  high. 

We  miss  —  0,  how  we  miss  !  —  his  face,  — 

With  trembling  accents  speak  his  name. 
Earth  cannot  fill  his  shadowed  place 

From  all  her  rolls  of  pride  and  fame  ; 
Our  song  has  lost  the  silvery  thread 

That  carolled  through  his  jocund  lips; 
Our  laugh  is  mute,  our  smile  is  fled, 

And  all  our  sunshine  in  eclipse. 


80  F.   W.   C. 

And  what  and  whence  the  wondrous  charm 

That  kept  his  manhood  boylike  still,  — 
That  life's  hard  censors  could  disarm 

And  lead  them  captive  at  his  will  ? 
His  heart  was  shaped  of  rosier  clay,  — 

His  veins  were  filled  with  ruddier  fire,  — 
Time  could  not  chill  him,  fortune  sway, 

Nor  toil  with  all  its  burdens  tire. 

His  speech  burst  throbbing  from  its  fount 

And  set  our  colder  thoughts  aglow, 
As  the  hot  leaping-  geysers  mount 

And  falling  melt  the  Iceland  snow. 
Some  word,  perchance,  we  counted  rash,  — 

Some  phrase  our  calmness  might  disclaim, 
Yet 't  was  the  sunset's  lightning's  flash, 

No  angry  bolt,  but  harmless  flame. 

Man  judges  all,  God  knoweth  each ; 

We  read  the  rule,  He  sees  the  law  ; 
How  oft  his  laughing  children  teach 

The  truths  his  prophets  never  saw  ! 
O  friend,  whose  wisdom  flowered  in  mirth, 

Our  hearts  are  sad,  our  eyes  are  dim  ; 
He  gave  thy  smiles  to  brighten  earth,  — 

We  trust  thy  joyous  soul  to  Him  ! 

Alas  !  —  our  weakness  Heaven  forgive  ! 

We  murmur,  even  while  we  trust, 
"  How  long  earth's  breathing  burdens  live, 
Whose  hearts,  before  they  die,  are  dust ! " 


F.   W.   C.  81 

But  thou  !  —  through  grief's  untimely  tears 

We  ask  with  half -reproachful  sigh  — 
'  Couldst  thou  not  watch  a  few  brief  years 

Till  Friendship  faltered,  '  Thou  mayst  die  '  ?  " 

Who  loved  our  boyish  years  so  well  ? 

Who  knew  so  well  their  pleasant  tales, 
And  all  those  livelier  freaks  could  tell 

Whose  oft-told  story  never  fails  ? 
In  vain  we  turn  our  aching  eyes,  — 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  eager  hands,  — 
Cold  in  his  wintry  shroud  he  lies 

Beneath  the  dreary  drifting  sands  ! 

Ah,  speak  not  thus  !    He  lies  not  there  ! 

We  see  him,  hear  him  as  of  old  ! 
He  comes  !  he  claims  his  wonted  chair  ; 

His  beaming  face  we  still  behold  ! 
His  voice  rings  clear  in  all  our  songs, 

And  loud  his  mirthful  accents  rise  ; 
To  us  our  brother's  life  belongs,  — 

Dear  friends,  a  classmate  never  dies  ! 

VOL.  II.  6 


82  THE  LAST  CHARGE. 

1864. 
THE  LAST  CHARGE. 

f|OW,  men  of  the  North  !  will  you  join  in 

the  strife 
For  country,  for  freedom,  for  honor,  for 

life  ? 

The  giant  grows  blind  in  his  fury  and  spite, — 
One  blow  on  his  forehead  will  settle  the  fight ! 

Flash  full  in  his  eyes  the  blue  lightning  of  steel, 
And  stun  him  with  cannon-bolts,  peal  upon  peal ! 
Mount,  troopers,  and  follow  your  game  to  its  lair, 
As  the  hound  tracks  the  wolf  and  the  beagle  the 
hare  ! 

Blow,   trumpets,    your    summons,   till    sluggards 

awake ! 
Beat,   drums,  till   the   roofs  of   the   faint-hearted 

shake  ! 

Yet,  yet,  ere  the  signet  is  stamped  on  the  scroll, 
Their  names  may  be  traced  on  the  blood-sprinkled 

roll ! 

Trust  not  the  false  herald  that  painted  your  shield  : 
True  honor  to-day  must  be  sought  on  the  field  ! 
Her  scutcheon  shows  white  with  a  blazon  of  red,  — 
The  life-drops  of  crimson  for  liberty  shed  ! 


OUR   OLDEST  FRIEND.  83 

The  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  moment  draws  nigh  ; 
The  dog-star  of  treason  grows  dim  in  the  sky ; 
Shine   forth   from  the  battle-cloud,  light  of  the 

morn, 
Call  back  the  bright  hour  when  the  Nation  was 

born ! 

The  rivers  of  peace  through  our  valleys  shall  run, 
As  the  glaciers  of  tyranny  melt  in  the  sun  ; 
Smite,  smite  the  proud  parricide  down  from  his 

throne,  — 
His  sceptre  once  broken,  the  "world  is  our  own ! 


1865. 
OUR   OLDEST   FRIEND. 

GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me 
and  you. 


When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air, 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife, 

We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 


84  OUR   OLDEST  FRIEND. 

He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night, 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone  ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass  ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four ; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still ; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New- Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send  ; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be, 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us  !  he  pats  our  heads, 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads ; 
And  he  's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair, 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 


SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH.          85 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
:<  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done  ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity  ! " 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  till  our  goodly  company  ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class-Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here  's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wisa  and  as  tough  as  he  ! 


1865. 
SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH. 

A    HALF-RHYMED    IMPROMPTU. 


IKE  the  tribes  of  Israel, 

Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  land, 


86  SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH. 

Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 
Marching  on  Savannah  ! 

As  the  moving-  pillar  shone, 
Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night, 
Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 
Down  on  doomed  Savannah  ! 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high ! 

Shout  the  loud  Hosanna  ! 
Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 

Sherman  7s  in  Savannah  ! 

Soon  shall  Richmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner ! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah  ! 


MY  ANNUAL.  87 

1866. 
MY  ANNUAL. 

HOW  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once 

loved  to  hear 
Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes 

of  a  tear  ? 

How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of  old, 
While  its  strings  were  unbroken,  untarnished  its 
gold  ? 

Dear   friends   of   my  boyhood,  my  words   do  you 

wrong ; 

The  heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb  in  my  song  ; 
It  reads   the  kind  answer  that  looks  from  your 

eyes,  — 
"  We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on  till  he  dies." 

Though  Youth,  the  fair  angel  that  looked  o'er  the 

strings, 

Has  lost  the  bright  glory  that  gleamed  on  his  wings, 
Though  the  freshness  of  morning  has  passed  from 

its  tone, 
It  is  still  the  old  harp  that  was  always  your  own. 

I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it  affords 
I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that  lend  me  its 
chords ; 


88  MY  ANNUAL. 

I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the  last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  with  the  voice  of  your 
past. 

Ah,  brothers  !  dear  brothers  !  the  harp  that  I  hold 
No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan  mould  ; 
He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fashioned  the  lyres 
That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  seraphim  choirs. 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it  brings, 

Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it  that  clings  ; 

Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years  that  are 

fled, 
Those  sweets  breathe  from   roses  your  summers 

have  shed. 

Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute  to  this, 
Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Garden  of  Bliss  ; 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  may  grow  as  they  will, 
Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Paradise  still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while  summer  is  green, 

The  leaf-hidden  cradle  that  rocked  him  unseen  ; 

When  Autumn's  rude  fingers  the  woods  have  un 
dressed, 

The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they  show  him  his 
nest. 

Too  precious  these  moments  !  the  lustre  they  fling 
Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of  its  ring, 
So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost  forget 
The  rays  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 


MY  ANNUAL  89 

While  round  us  the  many-lined  halo  is  shed, 
How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are  the  dead  ! 
One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting  below, 
Those  walking    the  shores   where   the    asphodels 
blow ! 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall  divide,  — 
No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at  my  side ; 
No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs  infest, 
His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like  the  rest. 

Some  won  the  world's  homage,  their  names  we  hold 

dear, — 

But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  countersign  here; 
Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned  in  the  strife 
For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the  battle  of  life ! 

What  tongue  talks  of  battle  ?     Too  long  we  have 

heard 

In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word  ; 
It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned  the  wave, 
It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood  of  our  brave. 

Peace,  Peace  comes  at  last,  with  her  garland  of 

white  ; 

Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather  to-night ; 
The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the  sun  ; 
We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one  !     We  are  one  ! 


90  ALL  HERE. 

1867. 
ALL  HERE. 

T  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  un 
broken, 

Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 
May  touch  the  heart  as  friendship's  token ; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other ; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 
But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whatever  your  garden  grows, 

Thrice  welcome  to  our  smiles  and  praises  ; 
Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 

Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies  ; 
One  flower  erelong  we  all  shall  claim, 

Alas  !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 
Nature's  last  blossom  —  need  I  name 

The  wreath  of  threescore 's  silver  lilies  ? 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 
Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers  1 

Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 
The  old  triennial  list  remembers  : 

Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 
That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 


ALL  HERE.  91 

The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine  — 

God  bless  THE  BOYS  !  —  are  all  together  ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greeting,  — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting ; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flashes  from  the  gilded  lustre, 
But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same  ; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  cluster  ! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 

Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immortals; 
They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 

Before  their  morning  days  were  numbered,  — 
Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 

The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that  slumbered  ! 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 

Arch  o'er  the  dust  where  worldlings  grovel 
High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 

The  cross  above  the  Sexton's  shovel ! 
We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day  ; 

They  seem  to  stoop  from  spheres  of  glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While  youth  comes  back  in  song  and  story. 

Ah  !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  temper ; 


92  ALL  HERE. 

It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 

The  priest's  ubigue  —  omnes  —  semper  ! 

It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 

That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as  steady 

As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already  ! 

The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder  ; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot ; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder  ! 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  —  no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever ! 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother : 
"My  children.     Boys  of  '29. 

In  pace.    How  they  loved  each  other ! " 


ONCE  MORE.  93 

1868. 
ONCE   MOKE. 

ILL  /  come  ?"    That  is  pleasant !  I  beg 

to  inquire 
If  the  gun  that  I  carry  has  ever  missed 

fire? 
And  which  was  the    muster-roll  —  mention   but 

one  — 

That  missed   your  old  comrade  who  carries  the 
gun1? 

You  see  me  as  always,  my  hand  on  the  lock, 
The  cap  on  the  nipple,  the  hammer  full  cock  ; 
It  is  rusty,  some  tell  me  ;  I  heed  not  the  scoff ; 
It  is  battered  and  bruised,  but  it  always  goes  off ! 

—  "  Is  it  loaded  ?  "    I  '11  bet  you !     What  does  n't 

it  hold  ? 

Rammed  full  to  the  muzzle  with  memories  untold  ; 
Why,  it  scares  me  to  fire,  lest  the  pieces  should  fly 
Like  the  cannons  that  burst  on  the  Fourth  of  July  ! 

One  charge  is  a  remnant  of  College-day  dreams 
(Its  wadding  is  made  of  forensics  and  themes)  ; 
Ah,  visions  of  fame  !  what  a  flash  in  the  pan 
As  the  trigger  was  pulled  by  each  clever  young 
man  ! 


94  .    ONCE  MORE. 

And  love  !     Bless  my  stars,  what   a  cartridge  is 

there ! 
With  a  wadding  of  rose-leaves  and  ribbons  and 

hair,  — 

All  crammed  in  one  verse  to  go  off  at  a  shot ! 
—  Were  there  ever  such  sweethearts  ?     Of  course 

there  were  not ! 

And  next,  —  what  a  load!    it  will  split  the  old 

gun,— 
Three    fingers,  '• —  four  fingers,  —  five    fingers  of 

fun  ! 

Come  tell  me,  gray  sages,  for  mischief  and  noise 
Was  there  ever  a  lot  like  us  fellows,  "  The  Boys  "  1 

Bump  !  bump !  down  the  staircase  the  cannon-ball 

goes,  — 

Aha,  old  Professor  !     Look  out  for  your  toes  ! 
Don't   think,    my   poor   Tutor,   to    sleep   in  your 

bed,— 
Two  "  Boys  "  —  'twenty-rimers  —  room  over  your 

head ! 

Eemember  the  nights  when  the  tar-barrel  blazed  ! 
From  red  "  Massachusetts  "  the  war-cry  was  raised ; 
And    "  Hollis "   and    "  Stoughton  "   reechoed    the 

call ; 
Till  P poked  his  head  out  of  Holworthy  Hall ! 

Old  P ,  as  we  called  him,  —  at  fifty  or  so,  — 

Not  exactly  a  bud,  but  not  quite  in  full  blow ; 


ONCE  MORE.  95 


In  ripening  manhood,  suppose  we  should  say, 
Just  nearing  his  prime,  as  we  boys  are  to-day 


O,  say,  can  you  look  through  the  vista  of  age 

To   the  time  when  old  Morse  drove  the  regular 

stage  ? 

When  Lyon  told  tales  of  the  long-vanished  years, 
And  Lenox  crept  round  with  the  rings  in  his  ears  ? 

And  dost  thou,  my  brother,  remember  indeed 
The  days  of  our  dealings  with  Willard  and  Eead  ? 
When  "  Dolly  "  was  kicking  and  running  away, 
And  punch  came  up  smoking  on  Fillebrown's  tray  ? 

But  where  are  the  Tutors,  my  brother,  O  tell !  — 
And  where  the  Professors  remembered  so  well? 
The  sturdy  old  Grecian  of  Hohvorthy  Hall, 
And  Latin,  and  Logic,  and  Hebrew,  and  all  ? 

— "  They  are  dead,  the  old  fellows "  (we  called 

them  so  then, 
Though  we  since  have  found  out  they  were  lusty 

young  men). 
—  They  are  dead,  do  you  tell  me  ?  —  but  how  do 

you  know  ? 
You  Ve  filled  once  too  often.     I  doubt  if  it 's  so. 

I  'm  thinking.     I  'm  thinking.     Is  this  'sixty-eight  ? 
It 's  not  quite  so  clear.     It  admits  of  debate. 
I  may  have  been  dreaming.     I  rather  incline 
To  think  —  yes,  I  'm  certain  —  it  is  'twenty-nine  ! 


96  .    ONCE  MORE. 

"By  Zhorzhe  !  " —  as  friend  Sales  is  accustomed  to 

cry,— 

You  tell  me  they  're  dead,  but  I  know  it 's  a  lie  ! 
Is  Jackson  uot  President  ?  —  What  was 't  you  said  ? 
It  can't  be;    you're  joking;   what,  —  all  of  'em 

dead? 

Jim,  —  Harry,  —  Fred,  —  Isaac,  —  all    gone    from 

our  side  ? 
They  couldn't  have  left  us,  —  no,  not  if  they  tried. 

—  Look,  —  there  's  our  old  Prases,  —  he  can't  find 

his  text ; 

—  See,  —  P rubs  his  leg,  as  he  growls  out 

"  The  next  I  " 


I  told  you 't  was  nonsense.  Joe,  give  us  a  song  ! 
Go  harness  up  "Dolly,"  and  fetch  her  along !  — 
Dead  !  Dead  !  You  false  graybeard,  I  swear  they 

are  not ! 
Hurrah  for  Old  Hickory  !  —  O,  I  forgot ! 

Well,  one  we  have  with  us  (how  could  he  contrive 
To  deal  with  us  youngsters  and  still  to  survive  ?) 
Who  wore  for  our  guidance  authority's  robe,  — 
No  wonder  he  took  to  the  study  of  Job  ! 

—  And  now  as  my  load  was  uncommonly  large, 
Let  me  taper  it  off  with  a  classical  charge; 
When  that  has  gone  off,  I  shall  drop  my  old  gun  — 
And  then  stand  at  ease,  for  my  service  is  done. 


THE   OLD   CRUISER.  97 

Bibamus  ad  Classem  vocatam  "  The  Boys  " 
Et  eorum  Tutorem  cui  nomen  est  "  Noyes  "  ; 
Etfloreant,  valeant,  vigeant  tarn 
Non  Peircius  ipse  enumeret  quam  / 


1869. 
THE  OLD  CEUISER. 

ERE  'S  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine, 
Forty  times  she  's  crossed  the  line  ; 
Same  old  masts  and  sails  and  crew, 
Tight  and  tough  and  as  good  as  new. 


Into  the  harbor  she  bravely  steers 
Just  as  she 's  done  for  these  forty  years,  — 
Over  her  anchor  goes,  splash  and  clang ! 
Down  her  sails  drop,  rattle  and  bang  ! 

Comes  a  vessel  out  of  the  dock 
Fresh  and  spry  as  a  fighting-cock, 
Feathered  with  sails  and  spurred  with  steam, 
Heading  out  of  the  classic  stream. 

Crew  of  a  hundred  all  aboard, 
Every  man  as  fine  as  a  lord. 
Gay  they  look  and  proud  they  feel, 
Bowling  along  on  even  keel. 

VOL.  II.  7 


98  THE   OLD   CRUISER. 

On  they -float  with  wind  and  tide,  — 
Gain  at  last  the  old  ship's  side ; 
Every  man  looks  down  in  turn,  — 
Reads  the  name  that 's  on  her  stern. 

"  Twenty -nine  !  —  Diable  you  say  ! 
That  was  in  Skipper  Kirkland's  day  ! 
What  was  the  Flying  Dutchman's  name  ? 
This  old  rover  must  be  the  same. 

"  Ho !  you  Boatswain  that  walks  the  deck, 
How  does  it  happen  you  're  not  a  wreck  ? 
One  and  another  have  come  to  grief, 
How  have  you  dodged  by  rock  and  reef  ?  " 

—  Boatswain,  lifting  one  knowing  lid, 
Hitches  his  breeches  and  shifts  his  quid  : 
"  Hey  ?     What  is  it  ?     Who  's  come  to  grief  ? 
Louder,  young  swab,  I  'm  a  little  deaf." 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  what  keeps  your  boat 
With  all  you  jolly  old  boys  afloat, 
When  scores  of  vessels  as  good  as  she 
Have  swallowed  the  salt  of  the  bitter  sea  ? 

"  Many  a  crew  from  many  a  craft 
Goes  drifting  by  on  a  broken  raft 
Pieced  from  a  vessel  that  clove  the  brine 
Taller  and  prouder  than  'Twenty-nine. 

"  Some  capsized  in  an  angry  breeze, 
Some  were  lost  in  the  narrow  seas, 


THE   OLD   CRUISER.  99 

Some  on  snags  and  some  on  sands 
Struck  and  perished  and  lost  their  hands. 

"  Tell  us  young  ones,  you  gray  old  man, 
What  is  your  secret,  if  you  can ; 
We  have  a  ship  as  good  as  you, 
Show  us  how  to  keep  our  crew." 

So  in  his  ear  the  youngster  cries  ; 
Then  the  gray  Boatswain  straight  replies  :  — 
"  All  your  crew  be  sure  you  know,  — 
Never  let  one  of  your  shipmates  go. 

"  If  he  leaves  you,  change  your  tack, 
Follow  him  close  and  fetch  him  back; 
When  you  've  hauled  him  in  at  last, 
Grapple  his  nipper  and  hold  him  fast. 

"  If  you  've  wronged  him,  speak  him  fair, 
Say  you  're  sorry  and  make  it  square ; 
If  he  's  wronged  you,  wink  so  tight 
None  of  you  see  what 's  plain  in  sight. 

"  When  the  world  goes  hard  and  wrong, 
Lend  a  hand  to  help  him  along ; 
When  his  stockings  have  holes  to  darn, 
Don't  you  grudge  him  your  ball  of  yarn. 

"  Once  in  a  twelvemonth,  come  what  may, 
Anchor  your  ship  in  a  quiet  bay, 
Call  all  hands  and  read  the  log, 
And  give  'em  a  taste  of  grub  and  grog. 


100  THE  OLD   CRUISER. 

"  Stick  to  each  other  through  thick  and  thin; 
All  the  closer  as  age  leaks  in  ; 
Squalls  will  blow  and  clouds  will  frown, 
But  stay  by  your  ship  till  you  all  go  down  ! " 

ADDED  FOR  THE  ALUMNI  MEETING,  JUNE  29, 

1869. 

So  the  gray  Boatswain  of  'Twenty-nine 
Piped  to  "  The  Boys  "  as  they  crossed  the  line ; 
Round  the  cabin  sat  thirty  guests, 
Babes  of  the  nurse  with  a  thousand  breasts. 

There  were  the  judges,  grave  and  grand, 
Elanked  by  the  priests  on  either  hand ; 
There  was  the  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
And  the  dear  good  fellow  in  broadcloth  old. 

Thirty  men  from  twenty  towns, 

Sires  and  graudsires  with  silvered  crowns, — 

Thirty  school-boys  all  in  a  row,  — 

Bens  and  Georges  and  Bill  and  Joe. 

In  thirty  goblets  the  wine  was  poured, 

But  threescore  gathered  around  the  board,  — 

For  lo  !  at  the  side  of  every  chair 

A  shadow  hovered  —  we  all  were  there ! 


HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING.     101 

1869.  ' 
HYMN  FOR   THE   CLASS-MEETING. 


HOU  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends 
The  light  of  home,  the  smile  of  friends, 
Our  gathered  flock  Thine  arms  infold 
As  in  the  peaceful  days  of  old. 


Wilt  Thou  not  hear  us  while  we  raise, 
In  sweet  accord  of  solemn  praise, 
The  voices  that  have  mingled  long 
In  joyous  flow  of  mirth  and  song  ? 

For  all  the  blessings  life  has  brought, 
For  all  its  sorrowing  hours  have  taught, 
For  all  we  mourn,  for  all  we  keep, 
The  hands  we  clasp,  the  loved  that  sleep ; 

The  noontide  sunshine  of  the  pnst, 
These  brief,  bright  moments  fading  fast, 
The  stars  that  gild  our  darkening  years, 
The  twilight  ray  from  holier  spheres  ; 

We  thank  Thee,  Father  !  let  Thy  grace 
Our  narrowing  circle  still  embrace, 
Thy  mercy  shed  its  heavenly  store, 
Thy  peace  be  with  us  evermore ! 


102  EVEN-SONG. 

1870. 
EVEN-SONG. 

l\T  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Time  that 

brings 

An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the 

train 

Of  Autumn's  burdened  wain, 
Time,  that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly  state, 

And  knoweth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  turned  to  shore  and  shore  to  sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be, 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his  own 

Old  empires  overthrown,  — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too  large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge, 
Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beams  so  small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,  must  be,  — yes,  he  soon  shall  tire 
This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first-born  thrill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 


EVEN-SONG.  103 

When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  summer's  heat 

Pipes  from  its  leafy  seat, 
The  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 

Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain,  — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "  The  fire  burns  low,  the  hearth  is  cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old ; 
Cover  its  embers  and  its  half-burnt  brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame  ; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same, 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme  ! 
Speak  kindly,  for  he  bears  a  human  heart, 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 
Tell  him  the  woods  their  autumn  robes  have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled, 
And  shouting  winds  unbuild  the  naked  nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts; 
Tell  him  the  sky  is  dark,  the  summer  o'er, 

And  bid  him  sing  no  more  ! 

Ah,  welladay  !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find  ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 


104  EVEN-SONG. 

Crested  with  gleams  of  fire,  and  as  they  flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever  reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach,  — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and  the  pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain, 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 

Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thon,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss  and  fame 

Hast  set  his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre  !  can  say  farewell  to  thee  ? 

Alas  !  and  must  it  be  ? 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately  tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung ; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song  ; 
Yet  the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender  tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more  sweet 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 
Than  all  the  hymnings  of  the  laurelled  throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong, 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them  she  feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 

And   pours  them   subtle  draughts   from   haunted 
streams 

That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

Full  well  I  know  the  gracious  mother's  wiles 
And  dear  delusive  smi'es  ! 


EVEN-SONG.  105 

No  callow  fledgling  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing, 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his  nest 

Flaps  forth  —  we  know  the  rest. 
I  own  the  weakness  of  the  tuneful  kind,  — 

Are  not  all  harpers  blind  ? 
I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late  ? 

The  lengthening  shadows  wait 
The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  — yet  how  sweet 

The  flattering  whisper's  cheat,  — 
"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill  can  tame, 

Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame  !  " 

Farewell,  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  morn, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born  ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not  back 

Along  his  furrowed  track ; 
The  reaper  leaves  the  stalks  for  other  hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bauds  ; 
The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant-born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes  his  way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray  ; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet  scrambling  down 

To  wnsh  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling  of  the  green  and  billowy  waste 

Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 
Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may  feel 

Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 


106 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 


The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes  us  bold 

With  secrets  else  untold,  — 
And  mine  has  run  its  errand  ;  through  the  dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse  ; 
The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my  lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips ; 
Whether  I  would  or  would  not,  I  must  sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring  ; 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 

For  whom  a  brighter  sun 

Dawned  at  high   summer's  noon.     Ah,  comrades 
dear, 

Are  not  all  gathered  here  ? 

Our  hearts  have  answered.  —  Yes!  they  hear  our 
call : 

All  gathered  here  !  all !  all ! 


1871. 
THE    SMILING   LISTENER. 

RECISELY.    I  see  it.     You  all  want  to 

say 
That  a  tear  is  too  sad  and  a  laugh  is  too 

gay ; 
You  could  stand  a  faint  smile,  you  could  manage  a 

sigh, 

But  you  value  your  ribs,  and  you  don't  want  to 
cry. 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER.          107 

And  why  at  onr  feast  of  the  clasping  of  hands 
Need  we  turn   on  the   stream   of  our  lachrymal 

glands  ? 
Though  we  see  the  white  breakers  of  age  on  our 

bow, 
Let  us  take  a  good  pull  in  the  jolly-boat  now  ! 

It 's  hard  if  a  fellow  cannot  feel  content 
When  a  banquet  like  this  does  n't  cost  him  a  cent,  • 
When  his  goblet  and  plate  he  may  empty  at  will, 
And  our  kind  Class  Committee  will  settle  the  bill. 

And  here 's  your  old  friend,  the  identical  bard 
Who  has  rhymed  and  recited  you  verse  by  the  yard 
Since  the  days  of  the  empire  of  Andrew  the  First 
Till  you  're  full  to  the  brim  and  feel  ready  to  burst. 

It 's  awful  to  think  of,  —  how  year  after  year 
With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for  you  here ; 
No  matter  who  's  missing,  there  always  is  one 
To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 

"  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  ?  "  Humanity  cries  : 
The  answer  is  briefly,  "  He  can't  if  he  tries  ; 
He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather  so  long, 
That   the   goose-quill  in  spite  of  him  cackles  in 
song." 

You  have  watched  him  with  patience  from  morn 
ing  to  dusk 

Since  the  tassel  was  bright  o'er  the  green  of  the 
husk, 


108  THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 

And  now,  —  it 's  too  bad,  —  it 's  a  pitiful  job,  — 
He  has  shelled  the  ripe  ear  till  he  's  come  to  the 
cob. 

I  see  one  face  beaming  —  it  listens  so  well 
There  must  be  some  music  yet  left  in  my  shell  — 
The  wine  of  my  soul  is  not  thick  on  the  lees ; 
One  string  is  unbroken,  one  friend  I  can  please  ! 

Dear  comrade,  the  sunshine  of  seasons  gone  by 
Looks  out  from  your  tender  and  tear-moistened 

eye, 

A  pharos  of  love  on  an  ice-girdled  coast,  — 
Kind  soul !  —  Don't  you  hear  me  ?  —  He  's  deaf  as 

a  post ! 

Can  it  be  one  of  Nature's  benevolent  tricks 
That  you  grow  hard  of  hearing  as  I  grow  prolix  ? 
And  that  look  of  delight  which  would  angels  be 
guile 
Is  the  deaf  man's  prolonged  unintelligent  smile  ? 

Ah  !  the  ear  may  grow  dull,  and  the  eye  may  wax 
dim, 

But  they  still  know  a  classmate  —  they  can't  mis 
take  him ; 

There  is  something  to  tell  us,  "  That 's  one  of  our 
band/' 

Though  we  groped  in  the  dark  for  a  touch  of  his 
hand. 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER.          109 

Well,  Time  with  his  snuffers  is  prowling  about 
And  his  shaky  old  fingers  will  soon  snuff  us  out ; 
There  's  a  hint  for  us  all  in  each  pendulum  tick, 
For  we  're  low  in  the  tallow  and  long  in  the  wick. 

You  remember  Rossini,  —  you  've  been  at  the  play  1 
How  his  overture-endings  keep  crashing  away 
Till  you  think,  "  It 's  all  over  —  it  can't  but  stop 

now,  — 

That 's  the  screech  and  the  bang  of  the  final  bow 
wow." 

And  you  find  you  're  mistaken  ;  there  's  lots  more 

to  come, 

More  banging,  more  screeching  of  fiddle  and  drum, 
Till  when  the  last  ending  is  finished  and  done, 
You  feel  like  a  horse  when  the  winning-post 's  won. 

So  I,  who  have  sung  to  you,  merry  or  sad, 

Since  the  days  when  they  called  me  a  promising 

lad, 
Though  I  've  made  you  more  rhymes  than  a  tutofc 

could  scan, 
Have  a  few  more  still  left,  like  the  razor-strop  man. 

Now  pray  don't  be   frightened,  —  I  'm  ready  to 

stop 

My  galloping  anapests'  clatter  and  pop,  — 
In  fact,  if  you  say  so,  retire  from  to-day 
To  the  garret  I  left,  on  a  poet's  half-pay. 


110  THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 

And  yet,  —  T  can't  help  it, —  perhaps  —  who  can 

tell? 
You   might  miss  the  poor  singer  you   treated  so 

well, 
And  confess  you  could  stand  him  five  minutes  or 

so, 
"  It  was  so  like  old    times  we    remember,  you 

know.'1 

'T  is  not  that  the  music  can  signify  much, 

But  then   there    are   chords   that   awake  with   a 

touch,  — 

And  our  hearts  can  find  echoes  of  sorrow  and  joy 
To  the   winch  of    the  minstrel  who  hails  from 

Savoy. 

So  this  hand-organ  tune  that  I  cheerfully  grind 
May  bring  the  old  places  and  faces  to  mind, 
And  seen  in  the  light  of  the  past  we  recall 
The  flowers  that  have  faded  bloom  fairest  of  all ! 


OUR  SWEET  SINGER.  HI 


1872. 

OUK  SWEET  SINGER. 

# 

J.  A. 

NE  memory  trembles  on  our  lips  : 

It  throbs  in  every  breast ; 
In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 
The  shadow  stands  confessed. 


O  silent  voice,  that  cheered  so  long 
Our  manhood's  marching  day, 

Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 
How  weary  seems  the  way  ! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 
Our  sorrowing  heart's  desire  ; 

The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 
The  silent  unstrung  lyre  ; 

For  youth  was  round  us  while  he  sang  : 

It  glowed  in  every  tone  ; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 

O  blissful  dream  !     Our  nursery  joys 
We  know  must  have  an  end, 

But  love  and  friendship's  broken  toys 
May  God's  good  angels  mend  ! 


112  OUR  SWEET  SINGER. 

The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 
And  laughter's  gay  surprise 

That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 
Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies  ? 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 
That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 

An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 
One  verse  of  "  Bonny  Doon  "  ; 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 
In  heaven's  unclouded  light, 

His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 
And  hum  "  The  sky  is  bright." 

And  can  we  smile  when  thou  art  dead  ? 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so  ! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red 

In  spite  of  winter's  snow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  song  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  grief's  untimely  chill. 

The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 
The  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 

Hark !  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 
That  clear  celestial  tone  ? 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 
How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 


H.  C.  M.    H.  S.    J.  K.   W.  113 

As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 
That  aiigel  voice  of  thine  J 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay ; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue  ; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung  ! 


1873. 


H.  C.  M.    H.  S.    J.  K.  W. 

HE  dirge  is  played,  the  throbbing  death- 

peal  rung  ; 

The  sad-voiced  requiem  sung 
On    each    white    urn  where    memory 

dwells 
The  wreath  of  rustling  immortelles 

Our  loving  hands  have  hung, 

And  balmiest  leaves  have  strown    and  tenderest 
blossoms  flung. 

The  birds  that  tilled  the   air  with  songs  have 

flown, 

The  wintry  blasts  have  blown, 
And  these  for  whom  the  voice  of  spring 
Bade  the  sweet  choirs  their  carols  sing 

Sleep  in  those  chambers  lone 

Where   snows   untrodden  lie,  unheard  the   night- 
winds  moan. 


114  //.  C.  M.     H.  S.     J.  K.   W. 

We  clasp  them  all  in  memory,  as  the  vine 

Whose  running  stems  iutwine 
The  marble  shaft,  and  steal  around 
The  lowly  stone,  the  nameless  mound  ; 

With  sorrowing  hearts  resign 
Our  brothers  true  and  tried,  and  close  our  broken 
line. 

How  fast  the  lamps  of  life  grow  dim  and  die 

Beneath  our  sunset  sky! 
Still  fading,  as  along  our  track 
We  cast  our  saddened  glances  back, 

And  while  we  vainly  sigh 

The  shadowy  day  recedes,  the  starry  night  draws 
nigh 

As  when  from  pier  to  pier  across  the  tide 

With  even  keel  we  glide, 
The  lights  we  left  along  the  shore 
Grow  less  and  less,  while  more,  yet  more 

New  vistas  open  wide 

Of   fair   illumined   streets   and  casements  golden- 
eyed. 

Each  closing  circle  of  our  sunlit  sphere 
Seems  to  bring  heaven  more  near  : 
Can  we  not  dream  that  those  we  love 
Are  listening  in  the  world  above 

And  smiling  as  they  hear 

The  voices  known  so  well  of  friends  that  still  are 
dear? 


WHAT  I  HAVE   COME   FOR.         115 

Does  all  that  made  us  human  fade  away 

"With  this  dissolving  clay  ? 
Nay,  rather  deem  the  blessed  isles 
Are  bright  and  gay  with  joyous  smiles, 

That  angels  have  their  play, 

And  saints  that  tire  of  song  may  claim  their  holi 
day. 

All  else  of  earth  may  perish  ;  love  alone 

Not  heaven  shall  find  outgrown  ! 
Are  they  not  here,  our  spirit  guests, 
With  love  still  throbbing  in  their  breasts  ? 

Once  more  let  flowers  be  strowu. 
Welcome,  ye  shadowy  forms,  we  count  you  still  our 
own ! 


1873. 
WHAT  I  HAVE   COME  FOR. 


HAVE  come  with  my  verses,  —  I  think 

I  may  claim 
It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  tried  on 

the  same. 
They  were  puckered  in  rhyme,  they  were  wrinkled 

in  wit ; 

But  your  hearts  were  so  large  that  they  made  them 
a  fit. 


116         WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR. 

I  have  come,  —  not  to  tease  you  with  more  of  my 

rhyme, 

But  to  feel  as  I  did  in  the  blessed  old  time ; 
I  want  to  hear  him  with  the  Brobdingnag  laugh  — 
We  count  him  at  least  as  three  men  and  a  half. 

I  have  come  to  meet  judges  so  wise  and  so  grand 
That  I  shake  in  my  shoes  while  they  're  shaking 

my  hand  ; 
And  the  prince  among  merchants  who  put  hack  the 

crown 
When  they  tried  to  enthrone  him  the  King  of  the 

Town. 

I  have  come  to  see  George  —  Yes,  I  think  there  are 

four, 
If  they  all  were  like  these  I  could  wish  there  were 

more. 
I  have   come   to  see   one  whom  we  used  to  call 

"  Jim," 
I  want  to  see,  —  O,  don't  I  want  to  see  him  ? 

I  have  come  to  grow  young,  —  on  my  word  I  de 
clare 

I  have  thought  I  detected  a  change  in  my  hair  ! 

One  hour  with  "  The  Boys "  will  restore  it  to 
brown,  — 

And  a  wrinkle  or  two  I  expect  to  rub  down. 

Yes,  that 's  what  I  've  come  for,  as  all  of  us  come  ; 
When  I  meet  the  dear  Boys  I  could  wish  I  were 
dumb. 


OUR  BANKER.  117 

You  asked  me,  you  know,  but  it  \s  spoiling  the 

fun ; 
I  have  told  what  I  came  for  ;  my  ditty  is  clone. 


1874. 
OUR  BANKER. 

[]LD  Time,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our 

notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always  wants  guineas  for 

groats-; 

He  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
By  lending  them  minutes  and  charging  them  years. 

The  twelvemonth  rolls  round  and  we  never  forget 
On  the  counter  before  us  to  pay  him  our  debt. 
We  reckon  the  marks  he  has  chalked  on  the  door, 
Pay  up  and  shake  hands  and  begin  a  new  score. 

How  long  he  will  lend  us,  how  much  we  may  owe, 
No  angel  will  tell  us,  no  mortal  may  know. 
At  fivescore,  at  fourscore,  at  threescore  and  ten, 
He  may  close  the  account  with  a  stroke  of  his  pen. 

This  only  we  know,  —  amid  sorrows  and  joys 
Old   Time   has   been  easy   and   kind  with   "The 
Boys." 


118  OUR  BANKER. 

Though  he  must  have  and  will  have  and  does  have 

his  pay, 
We  have  found  him  good-natured  enough  in  his 

way. 

He  never  forgets  us,  as  others  will  do,  — 
I  am  sure  he  knows  me,  and  I  think  he  knows  you, 
For  I  see  on  your  foreheads  a  mark  that  he  lends 
As  a  sign  he  remembers  to  visit  his  f  i  ieuds. 

In  the  shape  of  a  classmate  (a  wig  on  his  crown,  — 
His  day-book  and  ledger  laid  carefully  down) 
He  has  welcomed  us  yearly,  a  glass  in  his  hand, 
And  pledged  the  good  health  of  our  brotherly  band. 

He  's  a  thief,  we  must  own,  but  how  many  there  be 

That  rob  us  less  gently  and  fairly  than  he  : 

He  has  stripped  the  green  leaves  that  were  over  us 

all, 
But  they  let  in  the  sunshine  as  fast  as  they  fall. 

Young    beauties    may   ravish  the  world   with    a 

glance 
As   they  languish  in   song,   as   they  float   in   the 

dance, — 

They  are  grandmothers  now  we  remember  as  girls, 
And  the  comely  white  cap  takes  the  place  of  the 

curls. 

But  the  sighing  and  moaning  and  groaning  are 

o'er, 
We  are  pining  and  moping  and  sleepless  no  more, 


OUR  BANKER.  119 

And  the  hearts  that  were  thumping  like  ships  on 

the  rocks 
Beat  as  quiet  and  steady  as  meeting-house  clocks. 

The  trump  of  ambition,  loud  sounding  and  shrill, 
May  blow  its  long  blast,  but  the  echoes  are  still  ; 
The  spring-tides  are  past,  but  no  billow  may  reach 
The  spoils  they  have  landed  far  up  on  the  beach. 

We  see  that  Time  robs  us,  we  know  that  he  cheats, 
But  we  still  find  a  charm  in  his  pleasant  deceits, 
While  he  leaves  the  remembrance  of  all  that  was 

best, 
Love,  friendship,  and  hope,  and  the  promise  of  rest. 

Sweet  shadows  of  twilight !  how  calm  their  repose, 
While  the  dew-drops  fall  soft  in  the  breast  of  the 

rose  ! 

How  blest  to  the  toiler  his  hour  of  release 
When  the  vesper  is  heard  with  its  whisper  of  peace ! 

Then  here  's  to  the  wrinkled  old  miser,  our  friend  ; 
May  he  send  us  his  bills  to  the  century's  end, 
And  lend  us  the  moments  no  sorrow  alloys, 
Till  he  squares  his  account  with  the  last  of  "  The 
Boys." 


120  FOR  CLASS  MEETING. 

1875. 
FOR  CLASS   MEETING. 

HT  is  a  pity  and  a  shame  —  alas !  alas !  I 

know  it  is, 
To  tread  the  trodden  grapes  again,  but 

so  it  has  been,  so  it  is ; 
The  purple  vintage  long  is  past,  with  ripened  clus 
ters  bursting  so 

They  filled  the  wine-vats  to  the  brim,  —  't  is  strange 
you  will  be  thirsting  so  ! 

Too  well  our  faithful  memory  tells  what  might  be 
rhymed  or  sung  about, 

For  all  have  sighed  and  some  have  wept  since  last 
year's  snows  were  flung  about ; 

The  beacon  flame  that  fired  the  sky,  the  modest 
ray  that  gladdened  us, 

A  little  breath  has  quenched  their  light,  and  deep 
ening  shades  have  saddened  us. 

No  more  our  brothers'  life  is  ours  for  cheering  or 

for  grieving  us, 
One  only  sadness  they  bequeathed,  the  sorrow  of 

their  leaving  us ; 
Farewell !  Farewell !  —  I  turn  the  leaf  I  read  my 

chiming  measure  in  ; 
Who  knows  but  something  still  is  there  a  friend 

may  find  a  pleasure  in  ? 


FOR   CLASS  MEETING.  121 

For  who  can  tell  by  what  he  likes  what  other  peo 
ple's  fancies  are  ? 

How  all  men  think  the  best  of  wives  their  own  par 
ticular  Nancies  are  1 

If  what  I  sing-  you  brings  a  smile,  you  will  not  stop 
to  catechise, 

Nor  read  Boeotians  lumbering  line  with  nicely  scan 
ning  Attic  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  alabaster  box  that  Mary  broke  so  lov 
ingly, 

While  Judas  looked  so  sternly  on,  the  Master  so 
approvingly, 

Was  not  so  fairly  wrought  as  those  that  Pilate's 
wife  and  daughters  had, 

Or  many  a  dame  of  Judah's  line  that  drank  of  Jor 
dan's  waters  had. 

Perhaps  the  balm  that  cost  so  dear,  as  some  re 
marked  officially, 

The  precious  nard  that  filled  the  room  with  fra 
grance  so  deliciously, 

So  oft  recalled  in  storied  page  and  sung  in  verse 
melodious, 

The  dancing  girl  had  thought  too  cheap,  —  that 
daughter  of  Herodias. 

Where  now  are  all  the  mighty  deeds  that  Herod 

boasted  loudest  of  ? 
Where  now  the  flashing  jewelry  the  tetrarch's  wife 

was  proudest  of  ? 


122  FOR. CLASS   MEETING. 

Yet  still  to  hear  how  Mary  loved,  all  tribes  of  men 

are  listening, 
And  still  the  sinful   woman's  tears  like  stars  in 

heaven  are  glistening. 

•'T  is  not  the  gift  our  hands  have  brought,  the  love 

it  is  we  bring  with  it  ; 
The  minstrel's  lips  may  shape  the  song,  his  heart 

in  tune  must  sing  with  it ; 
And  so  we  love  the  simple  lays,  and  wish  we  might 

have  more  of  them 
Our  poet- brothers  sing  for  us —  there  must  be  half 

a  score  of  them. 

It  may  be  that  of  fame  and  name  our  voices  once 

were  emulous,  — 
With  deeper  thoughts,  with  tenderer  throbs  their 

softening  tones  are  tremulous ; 
The  dead  seem  listening  as  of  old,  ere  friendship 

was  bereft  of  them  ; 
The  living  wear  a  kinder  smile,  the  remnant  that  is 

left  of  them. 

Though  on  the  once  unfurrowed  brows  the  harrow- 
teeth  of  Time  may  show, 

Though  all  the  strain  of  crippling  years  the  halting 
feet  of  rhyme  may  show, 

We  look  and  hear  with  melting  hearts,  for  what 
we  all  remember  is 

The  morn  of  Spring,  nor  heed  how  chill  the  sky 
of  gray  November  is. 


"AD  AMICOS."  123 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  powers  above  from  all  man 
kind  that  singled  us, 

And  dropped  the  pearl  of  friendship  in  the  cup 
they  kindly  mingled  us, 

And  bound  us  in  a  wreath  of  flowers  with  hoops  of 
steel  knit  under  it ;  — 

Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  chance,  nor  change,  nor 
death  himself  shall  sunder  it ! 


1876. 
"AD  AMICOS." 

"  Dumque  virent  genua 
Et  decet,  obducta  solvatur  fronte  senectus.:' 

HE  muse  of  boyhood's  fervid  hour 

Grows    tame   as  skies  get  chill   and 

hazy; 

Where  once  she    sought    a   passion 
flower, 

She  only  hopes  to  find  a  daisy. 
Well,  who  the  changing  world  bewails  ? 
Who  asks  to  have  it  stay  unaltered  ? 
Shall  grown-up  kittens  chase' their  tails  ? 
Shall  colts  be  never  shod  or  haltered  ? 

Are  we  "  the  boys  "  that  used  to  make 
The  tables  ring  with  noisy  follies  ? 

Whose  deep-lunged  laughter  oft  would  shake 
The  ceiling  with  its  thunder-volleys  ? 


124  "-AD  AM/COS." 

Are  we  the  youths  with  lips  unshorn, 
At  beauty's  feet  umvrinkled  suitors, 

Whose  memories  reach  tradition's  morn,— - 
The  days  of  prehistoric  tutors  ? 

"  The  boys  "  we  knew, —  but  who  are  these 

Whose  heads  might  serve  for  Plutarch's  sages, 
Or  Fox's  martyrs,  if  you  please, 

Or  hermits  of  the  dismal  ages  ? 
"  The  boys  "  we  knew  —  can  these  be  those  ? 

Their    cheeks    with    morning's     blush    were 

painted  ;  — 

Where  are  the  Harrys,  Jims,  and  Joes 
With  whom  we  once  were  well  acquainted  ? 

If  we  are  they,  we  're  not  the  same  ; 

If  they  are  we,  why  then  they  're  masking; 
Do  tell  us,  neighbor  What  's-your-name, 

Who  are  you  ?  —  What 's  the  use  of  asking  ? 
You  once  were  George,  or  Bill,  or  Ben ; 

There's    you,   yourself, — there  's   you,   that 

other,  — 
I  know  you  now,  —  I  knew  you  then,  — 

You  used  to  be  your  younger  brother  ! 

You  both  are  all  our  own  to-day  — 
But  ah  !  I  hear  a  warning  whisper ; 

Yon  roseate  hour  that  flits  away 
Repeats  the  Roman's  sad  paulisper. 

Come  back !  come  back  !  we've  need  of  you 
To  pay  you  for  your  word  of  warning  ; 


"  AD  AMI  COS."  125 

We  '11  bathe  your  wings  in  brighter  dew 
Than  ever  wet  the  lids  of  morning  ! 

Behold  this  cup  ;  its  mystic  wine 

No  alien's  lip  has  ever  tasted  ; 
The  blood  of  friendship's  clinging-  vine, 

Still  flowing,  flowing,  yet  unwasted  ; 
Old  Time  forgot  his  running  sand 

And  laid  his  hour-glass  down  to  fill  it, 
And  Death  himself  with  gentle  hand 

Has  touched  the  chalice,  not  to  spill  it. 

Each  bubble  rounding  at  the  brim 

Is  rain  bo  wed  with  its  magic  story ; 
The  shining  days  with  age  grown  dim 

Are  dressed  again  in  robes  of  glory ; 
In  all  its  freshness  spring  returns 

With  song  of  birds  and  blossoms  tender ; 
Once  more  the  torch  of  passion  burns, 

And  youth  is  here  in  all  its  splendor  ! 

Hope  swings  her  anchor  like  a  toy, 

Love  laughs  and  shows  the  silver  arrow 
We  knew  so  well  as  man  and  boy,  — 

The  shaft  that  stings  through  bone  and  marrow; 
Again  our  kindling  pulses  beat, 

With  tangled  curls  our  fingers  dally, 
And  bygone  beauties  smile  as  sweet 

As  fresh-blown  lilies  of  the  valley. 

0  blessed  hour !  we  may  forget 
Its  wreaths,  its  rhymes,  its  songs,  its  laughter, 


126         HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT. 

But  not  the  loving  eyes  we  met, 

Whose  light  shall  gild  the  dim  hereafter. 

How  every  heart  to  each  grows  warm  ! 
Is  one  in  sunshine's  ray  ?     We  share  it. 

Is  one  in  sorrow's  blinding  storm  ? 
A  look,  a  word,  shall  help  him  bear  it. 

<l  The  boys  "  we  were,  "  the  boys  "  we  '11  be 

As  long  as  three,  as  two,  are  creeping  ; 
Then  here  's  to  him  —  all !  which  is  he  ?  — 

Who  lives  till  all  the  rest  are  sleeping  ; 
A  life  with  tranquil  comfort  blest, 

The  young  man's  health,  the  rich  man's  plenty, 
All  earth  can  give  that  earth  has  best, 

And  Heaven  at  fourscore  years  and  twenty. 


1877. 
HOW  NOT   TO   SETTLE   IT. 

LIKE,  at  times,  to  hear  the  steeples' 

chimes 
With  sober  thoughts  impressively  that 

mingle ; 

But  sometimes,  too,  I  rather  like  —  don't  you  ?  — 
To  hear  the  music  of  the  sleigh  bells'  jingle. 

I  like  full  well  the  deep  resounding  swell 
Of  mighty  symphonies  with  chords  inwoven ; 


nOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT.  127 

But  sometimes,  too,  a  song  of  Burns,  — don't  you? 
After  a  solemn  storm-blast  of  Beethoven. 

Good  to  the  heels  the  well-worn  slipper  feels 
When  the  tired  player  shuffles  off  the  buskin  ; 

A  page  of  Hood  may  do  a  fellow  good 
After  a  scolding  from  Carlyle  or  Ruskin. 

Some  works  I  find,  —  say  Watts  upon  the  Mind,  — 
No  matter  though  at  first  they  seemed  amusing, 

Not  quite  the  same,  but  just  a  little  tame 
After  some  five  or  six  times'  reperusing. 

So,  too,  at  times  when  melancholy  rhymes 
Or  solemn  speeches  sober  down  a  dinner, 

I  've  seen  it,  's  true,  quite  often,  —  have  n't  you  ?  — 
The  best-fed  guests  perceptibly  grow  thinner. 

Better  some  jest  (in  proper  terms  expressed) 
Or  story  (strictly  moral)  even  if  musty, 

Or   song  we   sung  when   these  old    throats  were 

young,  — 
Something  to  keep  our  souls  from  getting  rusty. 

The  poorest  scrap  from  memory's  ragged  lap 
Comes    like    an    heirloom    from    a    dear  dead 
mother  — 

Hush  !  there  's  a  tear  that  has  no  business  here, 
A  half-formed  sigh  that  ere  its  birth  we  smother. 

We  cry,  we  laugh ;  ah,  life  is  half  and  half, 
Now  bright  and  joyous  as  a  song  of  Herrick's, 


128          HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT. 

Then  chill  and  bare  as  funeral-minded  Blair  ; 
As  fickle  as  a  female  in  hysterics. 

If  I  could  make  you  cry  I  would  n't  try; 

If  you  have  hidden  smiles  I  'd  like  to  find  them, 
And  that  although,  as  well  I  ought  to  know, 

The  lips  of  laughter  have  a  skull  behind  them. 

Yet  when  I  think  we  may  be  on  the  brink 
Of  having  Freedom's  banner  to  dispose  of, 

All  crimson-hued,  because  the  Nation  would 
Insist  on  cutting  its  own  precious  nose  off, 

I  feel  indeed  as  if  we  rather  need 

A  sermon  such  as  preachers  tie  a  text  on  ; 

If  Freedom  dies  because  a  ballot  lies, 

She  earns  her  grave ;  't  is  time  to  call  the  sex 
ton  ! 

But  if  a  fight  can  make  the  matter  right, 

Here  are  we,  classmates,  thirty  men  of  mettle ; 

We  're  strong  and  tough,  we  've  lived  nigh  long 

enough  — 
What  if  the  Nation  gave  it  us  to  settle  ? 

The  tale  would  read  like  that  illustrious  deed 
When  Curtius  took  the  leap  the  gap  that  filled 

in, 

Thus ;    "  Fivescore  years,  good  friends,  as  it  ap 
pears, 
At  last  this  people  split  on  Hayes  and  Tilden. 


HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT.  129 

"  One  half  cried,  '  See  !  the  choice  is  S.  J.  T. ! ' 
And  one  half  swore  as  stoutly  it  was  t'  other ; 

Both  drew  the  knife  to  save  the  Nation's  life 
By  wholesale  vivisection  of  each  other. 

"Then  rose  in  mass  that  monumental  Class, — 
'  Hold  !  hold  ! '  they  cried,  '  give  us,  give  us  the 
daggers ! ' 

'  Content !  content ! '  exclaimed  with  one  consent 
The  gaunt  ex-rebels  and  the  carpet-baggers. 

"  Fifteen  each  side,  the  combatants  divide, 
So  nicely  balanced  are  their  predilections  ; 

And  first  of  all  a  tear-drop  each  lets  fall, 
A  tribute  to  their  obsolete  affections. 

"Man  facing  man,  the  sanguine  strife  began, 
Jack,  Jim,  and  Joe    against   Tom,   Dick,   and 
Harry, 

Each  several  pair  its  own  account  to  square, 
Till  both  were  down  or  one  stood  solitary. 

"  And  the  great  fight  raged  furious  all  the  night 
Till  every  integer  was  made  a  fraction  ; 

Reader,  wouldst  know  what  history  has  to  show 
As  net  result  of  the  above  transaction  ? 

"  Whole  coat-tails,  four ;  stray  fragments,  several 

score  ; 
A  heap  of  spectacles ;  a  deaf  man's  trumpet ; 

VOL.   II.  9 


130          HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT. 

Six  lawyers'  briefs  ;  seven  pocket-handkerchiefs  ; 
Twelve    canes   wherewith   the   owners  used    to 
stump  it ; 

"  Odd  rubber-shoes ;  old  gloves  of  different  hues  ; 

Tax-bills,   —  unpaid,  —   and     several     empty 

purses  ; 
And,  saved  from  harm  by  some  protecting  charm, 

A  printed  page  with  Smith's  immortal  verses; 

"  Trifles  that  claim  no  very  special  name,  — 
Some  useful,  others  chiefly  ornamental; 

Pins,  buttons,  rings,  and  other  trivial  things, 
With  various  wrecks,  capillary  and  dental. 

"  Also,  one  flag,  —  't  was  nothing  but  a  rag, 

And  what  device  it  bore  it  little  matters ; 
Red,  white,  and   blue,  but  rent  all  through  and 

through, 
'  Union  forever '  torn  to  shreds  and  tatters. 

"  They  fought  so  well  not  one  was  left  to  tell 
Which  got  the  largest  share  of  cuts  and  slashes ; 

When  heroes  meet,  both  sides  are  bound  to  beat ; 
They  telescoped  like  cars  in  railroad  smashes. 

"  So  the  great  split  that  baffled  human  wit 
And  might  have  cost  the  lives  of  twenty  millions, 

As  all  may  see  that  know  the  rule  of  three, 
Was  settled  just  as  well  by  these  civilians. 


HOW  NOT   TO  SETTLE  IT.  131 

"  As  well.    Just  so.    Not  worse,  not  better.     No, 
Next  morning  found  the  Nation  still  divided ; 

Since  all  were  slain,  the  inference  is  plain 
They  left  the  point  they  fought  for  undecided." 


If  not  quite  true,  as  I  have  told  it  you,  — 

This  tale  of  mutual  extermination, 
To  minds  perplexed  with  threats  of  what  conies 
next, 

Perhaps  may  furnish  food  for  contemplation. 

To  cut  men's  throats  to   help  them   count   their 
votes 

Is  asinine,  —  nay,  worse,  —  ascidian  folly  ; 
Blindness  like  that  would  scare  the  mole  and  bat, 

And  make  the  liveliest  monkey  melancholy. 

I  say  once  more,  as  I  have  said  before, 

If  voting  for  our  Tildens  and  our  Hayeses 

Means  only  fight,  then,  Liberty,  good  night  ! 
Pack  up  your  ballot-box  and  go  to  blazes  ! 


Unfurl  your  blood-red  flags,  you  murderous 
You  petroleuses  of  Paris,  fierce  and  foamy  ; 

We  'Jl  sell  our  stock  in  Plymouth's  blasted  rock, 
Pull  up  our  stakes  and  migrate  to  Dahomey  ! 


132  THE  LAST  SURVIVOR. 

1878. 
THE  LAST   SURVIVOR. 

;  ES !  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we  are 

going,  going  fast, 
And  the  thought  comes  strangely  o'er 

me  who  will  live  to  be  the  last  ; 
When  the  twentieth  century's  sunbeams  climb  the 

far  off  eastern  hill 

With  his  ninety  winters  burdened  will  he  greet  the 
morning  still  ? 

Will  he  stand  with  Harvard's  nurslings  when  they 

hear  their  mother's  call 
And  the  old  and  young  are  gathered  in  the  many- 

alcoved  hall  ? 
Will  he  answer  to  the  summons  when  they  range 

themselves  in  line 
And    the   young   mustachioed  marshal  calls  out 

"  Class  of  '29  "  ? 

Methinks  I  see  the  column  as  its  lengthened  ranks 
appear 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  morrow  of  the  nineteen  hun 
dredth  year ; 

Through  the  yard  't  is  creeping,  winding,  by  the 
walls  of  dusky  red  — 

What  shape  is  that  which  totters  at  the  long  pro 
cession's  head  ? 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR,  133 

Who   knows    this   ancient   graduate   of  fourscore 

years  and  ten,  — 
What  place  he  held,  what  name  he  bore  among  the 

sons  of  men  1 
So  speeds  the  curious  question ;  its  answer  travels 

slow  : 
"  ;T  is  the  last  of  sixty  classmates  of  seventy  years 

ago/' 

His  figure  shows  but  dimly,  his  face  I  scarce  can 

see,  — 
There  's  something  that  reminds  me,  —  it  looks  like 

—  is  it  he? 
He  ?    Who  ?    No  voice  may  whisper  what  wrinkled 

brow  shall  claim 
The  wreath  of  stars  that  circles  our  last  survivor's 

name. 

Will  lie  be  some  veteran  minstrel,  left  to  pipe  in 

feeble  rhyme 
All  the  stones  and  the  glories  of  our  gay  and  golden 

time? 
Or  some  quiet,  voiceless  brother  in  whose  lonely, 

loving  breast 
Fond  memory  broods  in  silence,  like  a  dove  upon 

her  nest  ? 

Will  it  be  some  old  Emeritus,  who  taught  so  long 

ago 
The  boys  that  heard  him  lecture  have  heads  as 

white  as  snow  ? 


134  THE  LAST  SURVIVOR. 

Or  a  pious,  painful  preacher,  holding  forth  from 

year  to  year 
Till  his  colleague  got  a  colleague  whom  the  young 

folks  flocked  to  hear  ? 

Will  it  be  a  rich  old  merchant  in  a  square-tied 
white  cravat, 

Or  select-man  of  a  village  in  a  pre-historic  hat  ? 

Will  his  dwelling  be  a  mansion  in  a  marble-fronted 
row, 

Or  a  homestead  by  a  hillside  where  the  huckleber 
ries  grow  ? 

I  can  see  our  one  survivor,  sitting  lonely  by  him 
self,  — 

All  his  college  text-books  round  him,  ranged  in 
order  on  their  shelf,  — 

There  are  classic  "  inteiiiners  "  filled  with  learn 
ing's  choicest  pith, 

Each  cum  notis  variorum,  quas  recensuit  doctus 
Smith ; 

Physics,  metaphysics,  logic,  mathematics,  —  all  the 
lot,— 

Every  wisdom-crammed  octavo  he  has  mastered 
and  forgot, 

With  the  ghosts  of  dead  Professors  standing  guard 
beside  them  all ; 

And  the  room  is  full  of  shadows  which  their  let 
tered  backs  recall. 


THE  LAST  SURVIVOR.  135 

How  the  past  spreads  out  in  vision  with  its  far  re 
ceding  train, 

Like  a  long  embroidered  arras  in  the  chambers  of 
the  brain, 

From  opening  manhood's  morning  when  first  we 
learn  to  grieve, 

To  the  fond  regretful  moments  of  our  sorrow-sad 
dened  eve ! 

What  early  shadows  darkened  our  idle  summer's 

j°y 

When  death  snatched  roughly  from  us  that  lovely 

bright-eyed  boy  ! l 
The  years  move  swiftly  onwards  ;  the  deadly  shafts 

fall  fast,  — 
Till  all  have  dropped  around  him,  —  lo,  there  he 

stands,  —  the  last ! 

Their  faces  flit  before  him,  some  rosy-hued  and 

fair, 
Some  strong  in  iron  manhood,  some  worn  with  toil 

and  care,  — 
Their  smiles  no  more  shall  greet  him  on  cheeks 

with  pleasure  flushed  ! 
The  friendly  hands  are  folded,  the  pleasant  voices 

hushed  ! 

My  picture  sets  me  dreaming  ;  alas !  and  can  it  be 
Those  two  familiar  faces  we  never  more  may  see  ? 

1  William  Watson  Sturgis. 


136  THE  LAST  SURVIVOR. 

In  every   entering  footfall   I  think  them  drawing 

near, 
With  every  door  that  opens  I  say,  "  At  last  they  're 

here ! " 

The  willow  bends  unbroken  when  angry  tempests 

blow, 
The  stately  oak  is  levelled  and  all  its  strength  laid 

low  ; 
So  fell  that  tower  of  manhood,  undaunted,  patient, 

strong, 
White  with  the  gathering  snow-flakes,  who  faced 

the  storm  so  long.1 

And  he,2  —  what  subtle  phrases  their  varying  lights 

must  blend 
To  paint  as  each  remembers   our   many-featured 

friend  ! 

His  wit  a  flash  auroral  that  laughed  in  every  look, 
His  talk  a  sunbeam  broken  on  the  ripples  of  a 

brook, 

Or,  fed  from  thousand  sources,  a  fountain's  glitter 
ing  jet, 

Or  careless  handfuls  scattered  of  diamond  sparks 
unset, 

Ah,  sketch  him,  paint  him,  mould  him  in   every 
shape  you  will, 

He  was  himself,  —  the  only,  —  the  one  unpictnred 

still ! 
1  Francis  B.  Crowninshield.  2  George  T.  Davis. 


THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND    GIL   BLAS.    137 

Farewell !  our  skies  are  darkened  and  yet  the  stars 

will  shine, 
We  '11  close  our  ranks  together  and  still  fall  into 

line, 

Till  one  is  left,  one  only,  to  mourn  for  all  the  rest ; 
And  Heaven  bequeath  their  memories  to  him  who 

loves  us  best ! 


1879. 
THE   ARCHBISHOP   AND   GIL  BLAS. 

A    MODERNIZED   VERSION. 

DON'T  think  I  feel  much  older ;  I  'm 

aware  I  'm  rather  gray, 
But  so  are  many  young  folks;  I  meet 

'em  every  day. 
I  confess  I  'm  more  particular  in  what  I  eat  and 

drink, 

But  one's  taste  improves  with  culture ;  that  is  all 
it  means,  I  think. 

Can  you  read  as  once  you  used  to  ?  Well,  the  print 
ing  is  so  bad, 

No  young  folks'  eyes  can  read  it  like  the  books  that 
once  we  had. 

Are  you  quite  as  quick  of  hearing  ?  Please  to  say 
that  once  again. 

Don't  I  use  plain  ivords,  your  Reverence  ?  Yes,  I 
often  use  a  cane, 


138     THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND    GIL  BLAS. 

But  it 's  not  because  I  need  it,  — no,  I  always  liked 

a  stick ; 
And  as  one  might  lean  upon  it,  't  is  as  well  it  should 

be  thick. 
Oh,  I  'm  smart,  I  'm  spry,  I  'm  lively,  —  I  can  walk, 

yes,  that  I  can, 
On  the  days  I  feel  like  walking,  just  as  well  as  you, 

young  man ! 

Don't  you  get  a  little  sleepy  after  dinner  every  day  ? 
Well,  I  doze  a  little,  sometimes,  but  that  always 

was  my  way. 
Don't  you  cry  a  little  easier  than  some  twenty  years 

ago? 
Well,  my  heart  is  very  tender,  but  I  think  Jt  was 

always  so. 

Don't  you  find  it  sometimes  happens  that  you  can't 
recall  a  name  ? 

Yes,  —  I  know  such  lots  of  people,  —  but  my  mem 
ory  's  not  to  blame. 

What !  You  think  my  memory  's  failing !  Why, 
it 's  just  as  bright  and  clear,  — 

I  remember  my  great-grandma  !  She  's  been  dead 
these  sixty  year  ! 

7s  your  voice  a  little  trembly  ?  Well,  it  may  be,  now 
and  then, 

But  I  write  as  well  as  ever  with  a  good  old-fash 
ioned  pen ; 


THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND    GIL  BLAS.     139 

It 's  the  Gillotts  make  the  trouble,  —  not  at  all  my 

finger-ends,  — 
That 's  why  my  hand  looks  shaky  when  I  sign  for 

dividends. 

Don't  you  stoop  a  little,  walking  ?     It 's  a  way  I  Ve 

always  had  — 
I  have  always  been  round-shouldered  ever  since  I 

was  a  lad. 
Don't  you  hate  to  tie  your  shoe-strings  ?     Yes,  I  own 

it — that  is  true. 
Don't  you  tell  old  stories  over  ?    I  am  not  aware  I 

do. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings  ?     Don't  you  love 

a  cushioned  seat 
In  a  corner,  by  the  fireside ',  with  your  slippers  on  your 

feet1? 
Don't  you  wear  warm  fleecy  flannels  ?     Don't  you 

imiffle  up  your  throat  ? 
Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when  you  're  putting 

on  your  coat  ? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you  've  dogs  eared,  you  can't 

remember  when  ? 
Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and  go  to  bed  at 

ten? 
How  many  cronies  can  you  count,  of  all  you  used  to 

know 
Who  called  you  by  your  Christian  name  some  fifty 

years  ago  ? 


140     THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND    GIL   BLAS. 

How  look  the  prizes  to  ijou   that  used  to  fire  your 

brain  ? 
You  've  reared  your  mound  —  how  high  is  it  above  the 

level  plain  ? 
You  've  drained  the  brimming  golden  cup  that  made 

your  fancy  reel, 
You  've  slept  the  giddy  potion  off]  —  now  tell  us  liow 

you  feel ! 

You  've  watched  the  harvest  ripening  till  every  stem 

was  cropped, 
You  've  seen  the  rose  of  beauty  fade  till  every  petal 

dropped, 
You  've  told  your  thought,  you  've  done  your  task,  you  ''ve 

tracked  your  dial  round, 
—  I    backing  down  !      Thank    Heaven,   not   yet  ! 

I  'in  hale  and  brisk  and  sound, 

And  good  for  many  a  tussle,  as  you  shall  live  to 

see; 
My  shoes   are   not  quite  ready  yet,  —  don't  think 

you  're  rid  of  me  ! 
Old  Parr  was  in  his  lusty  prime  when  he  was  older 

far, 
And  where  will  you  be  if  I  live  to  beat  old  Thomas 

Parr? 

Ah  well,  —  /  know,  —  at  every  age  life  has  a  certain 

char -m,  — 
You  're  going  ?    Come,  permit  me,  please,  I  beg  you  'II 

take  my  arm. 


VESTIGIA    Q.U1NQ.UE  RETRORSUM.     141 

I  take  your  arm  !    Why  take  your  arm  ?  I  'd  thank 

you  to  be  told  ; 
I  'm  old  enough  to  walk  alone,  but  not  so  very  old ! 


1879. 
VESTIGIA   QUINQUE   RETRORSUM. 

AN  ACADEMIC  POEM,  READ  AT  THE  COMMENCE 
MENT  DINNER  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD 
UNIVERSITY,  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  GRAD 
UATION. 

jJHILE  fond,  sad  memories  all  around  us 

throng 
Silence  were  sweeter  than  the   sweetest 

song ; 

Yet  when  the  leaves  are  green  and  heaven  is  blue, 
The  choral  tribute  of  the  grove  is  due; 
And  when  the  lengthening  nights  have  chilled  the 

skies 

We  fain  would  hear  the  song-bird  ere  he  flies, 
And  greet  with  kindly  welcome  even  as  now, 
The  lonely  minstrel  on  his  leafless  bough. 

This  is  our  golden  year,  —  its  golden  day  ; 
Its  bridal  memories  soon  must  pass  away ; 
Soon  shall  its  dying  music  cease  to  ring 
And  every  year  must  loose  some  silver  string, 


142     VESTIGIA    HUINQUE  RETRORSUM. 

Till  the  last  trembling  chords  no  longer  thrill,  — 
Hands  all  at  rest  and  hearts  forever  still. 

A  few  gray  heads  have  joined  the  forming  line  ; 
We  hear  our  summons,  —  "  Class  of  'Twenty-Nine ! " 
Close  on  the  foremost,  and  Alas,  how  few  ! 
Are    these    "The    Boys"   our  dear  old    Mother 

knew? 
Sixty    brave     swimmers.      Twenty  —  something 

more  — 
Have  passed  the  stream  and  reached  this  frosty 

shore ! 

How  near  the  banks  these  fifty  years  divide 
When  memory  crosses  with  a  single  stride  ! 
'T  is  the  first  year  of  stern  "  Old  Hickory  "  's  rule 
When  our  good  Mother  lets  us  out  of  school, 
Half  glad,  half  sorrowing,  it  must  be  confessed, 
To  leave  her  quiet  lap,  her  bounteous  breast, 
Armed  with  our  dainty,  ribbon-tied  degrees, 
Pleased  and  yet  pensive,  exiles  and  A.  B/s. 

Look  back,  O  comrades,  with  your  faded  eyes, 
And  see  the  phantoms  as  I  bid  them  rise. 
Whose  smile  is  that  ?     Its  pattern  Nature  gave, 
A  sunbeam  dancing  in  a  dimpled  wave  ; 
KIRKLAND  alone  such  grace  from  Heaven  could 

win, 

His  features  radiant  as  the  soul  within ; 
That  smile  would  let  him  through   Saint  Peter's 

gate 
While  sad-eyed  martyrs  had  to  stand  and  wait. 


VESTIGIA    QUINQUE  RETRORSUM.     143 

Here  flits  mercurial  Farrar ;  standing  there, 
See  mild,  benignant,  cautious,  learned  Ware, 
And  sturdy,  patient,  faithful,  honest  Hedge, 
Whose  grinding  logic  gave  our  wits  their  edge ; 
Ticknor,  with  honeyed  voice  and  courtly  grace ; 
And  Wiflard  larynxed  like  a  double  bass; 
And  Channing  with  his  bland  superior  look, 
Cool  as  a  moonbeam  on  a  frozen  brook, 
While  the  pale  student,  shivering  in  his  shoes, 
Sees  from  his  theme  the  turgid  rhetoric  ooze  ; 
And  the  born  soldier,  fate  decreed  to  wreak 
His  martial  manhood  on  a  class  in  Greek, 
Popkin !    How  that  explosive  name  recalls 
The  grand  old  Busby  of  our  ancient  halls ! 
Such  faces  looked  from  Skippon's  grim  platoons, 
Such  figures  rode  with  Ireton's  stout  dragoons ; 
He  gave  his  strength  to  learning's  gentle  charms, 
But  every  accent  sounded  "  Shoulder  arms  !  " 

Names,  —  empty  names  !     Save  only  here  and 

there 

Some  white-haired  listener,  dozing  in  his  chair, 
Starts  at  the  sound  he  often  used  to  hear 
And  upward  slants  his  Sunday-sermon  ear. 

And  we,  —  our  blooming  manhood  we  regain ; 
Smiling  we  join  the  long  Commencement  train, 
One  point  first  battled  in  discussion  hot, — 
Shall  we  wear  gowns  ?  and  settled  :    We  will  not. 
How  strange  the  scene,  —  that  noisy  boy-debate 
Where  embryo-speakers  learn  to  rule  the  State  ! 


144     VESTIGIA    QUJNQUE  RETRORSUM. 

This  broad-browed  youth,1  sedate  and  sober-eyed, 
Shall  wear  the  ermined  robe  at  Taney's  side  ; 
And  he,  the  stripling1,2  smooth  of  face  and  slight, 
Whose  slender  form  scarce  intercepts  the  light, 
Shall  rule  the  Bench  where  Parsons  gave  the  law, 
And  sphynx-like  sat  uncouth,  majestic  Shaw ! 
Ah,  many  a  star  has  shed  its  fatal  ray 
On  names  we  loved, — our  brothers,  —  where  are 

they  ? 

Nor  these  alone ;  our  hearts  in  silence  claim 
Names  not  less  dear,  unsyllabled  by  fame. 

How  brief  the  time !  and  yet  it  sweeps  us  back 
Far,  far  along  our  new-born  history's  track ! 
Five  strides  like   this  ;  —  the   Sachem  rules  the 

land  ; 
The  Indian  wigwams  cluster  where  we  stand. 

The  second.  —  Lo  !  a  scene  of  deadly  strife  — 
A  nation  struggling  into  infant  life  ; 
Not  yet  the  fatal  game  at  Yorktown  won 
Where  falling  Empire  fired  its  sunset  gun. 
LANGDON  sits  restless  in  the  ancient  chair,  — 
Harvard's  grave  Head,  —  these  echoes  heard  his 

prayer 

When  from  yon  mansion,  dear  to  memory  still, 
The  banded  yeomen  marched  for  Bunker's  hill. 
Count  on  the  grave  triennial's  thick-starred  roll 
What  names  were  numbered  on  the  lengthening 

scroll,  — 
1  Benjamin  Bobbins  Curtis.        2  George  Tyler  Bigelow. 


VESTIGIA    QUINQVE  RETRORSUM.     145 

Not  unfamiliar  in  our  ears  they  ring,  — 
Winthrop,  Hale,  Eliot,  Everett,  Dexter,  Tyng. 

Another  stride.     Once  more  at  'Twenty-Nine,  — 
GOD  SAVE  KING  GEORGE,  the  Second  of  his  line ! 
And  is  Sir  Isaac  living  ?     Nay,  not  so,  — 
He  followed  Flamsteed  two  short  years  ago,  — 
And  what  about  the  little  hump-backed  man 
Who    pleased   the   bygone   days   of  good   Queen 

Anns? 

What,  Pope?  another  book  he  's  just  put  out, — 
"  The  Dunciad,"  —  witty,  but  profane,  no  doubt. 
Where  's  Cotton  Mather  ?  he  was  always  here,  — 
And  so  he  would  be,  but  he  died  last  year. 
Who  is  this  preacher  our  Northampton  claims, 
Whose  rhetoric  blazes  with  sulphureous  flames 
And  torches  stolen  from  Tartarean  mines  ? 
Edwards,  the  salamander  of  divines. 
A  deep,  strong  nature,  pure  and  undefiled ; 
Faith,  firm  as  his  who  stabbed  his  sleeping  child ; 
Alas  for  him  who  blindly  strays  apart 
And  seeking  God  has  lost  his  human  heart! 
Fall  where  they  might  no  flying  cinders  caught 
These  sober  halls  where  WADSWQRTH  ruled  and 

taught. 

One  footstep  more;  the  fourth  receding  stride 
Leaves  the  round  century  on  the  nearer  side. 
GOD  SAVE   KING   CHARLES  !      God  knows  that 

pleasant  knave 
His  grace  will  find  it  hard  enough  to  save. 

VOL.   II.  10 


146     VESTIGIA    QUINQUE  RETRORSUM. 

Ten  years  and  more,  and  now  the  Plague,   the 

Fire, 

Talk  of  all  tongues,  at  last  begin  to  tire  ; 
One  fear  prevails,  all  other  frights  forgot,  — 
White  lips  are  whispering,  —  hark  !     The  popish 

Plot ! 

Happy  New  England,  from  such  troubles  free 
In  health  and  peace  beyond  the  stormy  sea  ! 
No  Romish  daggers  threat  her  children's  throats, 
No  gibbering  nightmare  mutters  "  Titus  Oates;  " 
Philip  is  slain,  the  quaker  graves  are  green, 
Not  yet  the  witch  has  entered  on  the  scene ; 
Happy  our  Harvard  ;  pleased  her  graduates  four ; 
UBIAN  OAKES  the  name  their  parchments  bore. 

Two  centuries  past,  our  hurried  feet  arrive 
At  the  last  footprint  of  the  scanty  five  ; 
Take  the  fifth  stride  ;  our  wandering  eyes  explore 
A  tangled  forest  on  a  trackless  shore  ; 
Here,  where  we  stand,  the  savage  sorcerer  howls, 
The  wild  cat  snarls,  the  stealthy  gray  wolf  prowls, 
The     slouching    bear,    perchance    the    trampling 

moose 
Starts  the  brown  squaw  and  scares  her  red  pap- 

poose ; 

At  every  step  the  lurking  foe  is  near  ; 
His  Demons  reign  ;  God  has  no  temple  here  ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes  !  behold  these  pictured  Avails; 
Look  where  the  flood  of  western  glory  falls 


VESTIGIA    QUINQUE  RETRORSUM.     147 

Through    the    great    sunflower    disk  of    blazing 

panes 

In  ruby,  saffron,  azure,  emerald  stains ; 
With  reverent  step  the  marble  pavement  tread 
Where  our  proud  Mother's  martyr-roll  is  read  ; 
Sec  the  great  halls  that  cluster,  gathering  round 
This  lofty  shrine  with  holiest  memories  crowned ; 
See  the  fair  Matron  in  her  summer  bower  ; 
Fresh  as  a  rose  in  bright  perennial  flower ; 
Read  on  her  standard,  always  in  the  van, 
"  TRUTH,"  —  the  one  word  that  makes  a  slave  a 

man ; 

Think  whose  the  hands  that  fed  her  altar-fires, 
Then  count  the  debt  we  owe  our  scholar-sires ! 

Brothers,  farewell !  the  fast  declining  ray 
Fades  to  the  twilight  of  our  golden  day  ; 
Some  lesson  yet  our  weaned  brains  may  learn, 
Some  leaves,  perhaps,  in  life's  thin  volume  turn. 
How  few  they  seem  as  in  our  waning  age 
We  count  them  backwards  to  the  title-page  ! 
Oh  let  us  trust  with  holy  men  of  old 
Not  all  the  story  here  begun  is  told ; 
So  the  tired  spirit,  waiting  to  be  freed, 
On  life's  last  leaf  with  tranquil  eye  shall  read 
By  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  torch  reversed, 
Not  Finis,  but  The  End  of  Volume  First  ! 


r 

((UNIVERSITY 


148  THE  SHADOWS. 

1880. 
THE  SHADOWS. 

'jOW  many  have   gone?"   was  the  ques 
tion  of  old 
Ere  time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels 

bereft ; 

Alas  !  for  too  often  the  death-bell  has  tolled, 
And  the   question  we  ask  is,  "  How  many  are 
left '? " 

Bright  sparkled   the  wine ;  there  were  Jifty  that 

quaffed  ; 
For  a  decade  had  slipped   and  had  taken  but 

three ; 
How  they  frolicked  and  sung,  —  how  they  shouted 

and  laughed, 

Like  a  school  full  of  boys  from  their  benches  set 
free  ! 

There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there  were  stories 

and  rhymes, 
The  hall  shook  its  sides  with  their  merriment's 

noise ; 
As   they   talked   and    lived    over  the  college-day 

times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their  old  name  of  "  The 
Boys  !  " 


THE  SHADOWS.  149 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhythmical  flow 
With    mornings    like   maidens   that   pouted  or 

smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf  and  the  fruit  and  the 

snow, 

And  the  year-books  of  Time  in  his  alcoves  were 
piled. 

There  were  forty   that  gathered  where  fifty  had 

met ; 
Some  locks  had  got  silvered,   some  lives  had 

grown  sere, 

But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty  as  yet, 
And  the  song  of  the  singers  rose  ringing  and 
clear. 

Still  flitted  the  years  ;  there  were  thirty  that  came  ; 
"  The  Boys  "  they  were  still  and  they  answered 

their  call ; 
There  were  foreheads  of  care,  but  the  smiles  were 

the  same, 

And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through  the  garlanded 
hall. 

The  hour-hand  moved  on,  and  they  gathered  again ; 

There  were  twenty  that  joined  in  the  hymn  that 

was  sung ; 
But  ah  !  for  our  song-bird  we  listened  in  vain,  — 

The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's  that  rung ! 

How  narrow  the  circle  that  holds  us  to-night ! 
How  many  the  loved  ones  that  greet  us  no  more, 


150  BENJAMIN  PEIRCE. 

As  we  meet  like  the  stragglers  that  come  from  the 

fight, 

Like  the  mariners  flung  from  a  wreck  on  the 
shore  ! 

We  look  through  the  twilight  for  those  we  have 

lost; 
The  stream  rolls  between  us  and  yet  they  seem 

near; 

Already  outnumbered  by  those  who  have  crossed, 
Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is  not  here  ! 

They  smile  on  us  still  —  is  it  only  a  dream  ?  — 

While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names  we  recall,  — 
They  beckon,  —  they  come,  —  they  are  crossing  the 

stream,  — 

Lo  !  the  Shadows  !  the  Shadows  !  room  —  room 
for  them  all ! 


1881. 
BENJAMIN  PEIRCE: 

ASTRONOMER,   MATHEMATICIAN. 

1809-1880. 

ft  OR  him  the  Architect  of  all 

Unroofed  our  planet's  starlit  hall ; 
Through  voids  unknown  to  worlds  un 
seen 
His  clearer  vision  rose  serene. 


BENJAMIN  PIERCE.  151 

With  us  on  earth  he  walked  by  day, 
His  midnight  path  how  far  away  ! 
We  knew  him  not  so  well  who  knew 
The  patient  eyes  his  soul  looked  through ; 

For  who  his  untrod  realm  could  share 
Of  us  that  breathe  this  mortal  air, 
Or  camp  in  that  celestial  tent 
Whose  fringes  gild  our  firmament  ? 

How  vast  the  workroom  where  he  brought 
The  viewless  implements  of  thought ! 
The  wit  how  subtle,  how  profound, 
That  Nature's  tangled  webs  unwound  ; 

That  through  the  clouded  matrix  saw 

The  crystal  planes  of  shaping  law, 

Through  these  the  sovereign  skill  that  planned,  — 

The  Father's  care,  the  Master's  hand  ! 

To  him  the  wandering  stars  revealed 
The  secrets  in  their  cradle  sealed : 
The  far-off,  frozen  sphere  that  swings 
Through  ether,  zoned  with  lucid  rings  ; 

The  orb  that  rolls  in  dim  eclipse 
Wide  wheeling  round  its  long  ellipse,  — 
His  name  Urania  writes  with  these 
And  stamps  it  on  her  Pleiades. 

We  knew  him  not  ?     Ah,  well  we  knew 
The  manly  soul,  so  brave,  so  true, 


152  BENJAMIN  PEIRCE. 

The  cheerful  heart  that  conquered  age, 
The  child-like,  silver-bearded  sage. 

No  more  his  tireless  thought  explores 
The  azure  sea  with  golden  shores ; 
Rest,  wearied  frame !  the  stars  shall  keep 
A  loving  watch  where  thou  shalt  sleep. 

Farewell !  the  spirit  needs  must  rise, 
So  long  a  tenant  of  the  skies,  — 
Rise  to  that  home  all  worlds  above 
Whose  sun  is  God,  whose  light  is  love. 


SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS. 

1862-1874. 


r 


SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS. 


1862-1874. 


OPENING  THE  WINDOW. 


HUS  I  lift  the  sash,  so  long 
Shut  against  the  flight  of  song ; 
All  too  late  for  vain  excuse,  — 
Lo,  my  captive  rhymes  are  loose  ! 


Rhymes  that,  flitting  through  my  brain, 
Beat  against  my  window-pane  ; 
Some  with  gayly  colored  wings, 
Some,  alas !  with  venomed  stings. 

Shall  they  bask  in  sunny  rays  ? 
Shall  they  feed  on  sugared  praise  ? 
Shall  they  stick  with  tangled  feet 
On  the  critic's  poisoned  sheet  1 

Are  the  outside  winds  too  rough  ? 
Is  the  world  not  wide  enough  ? 
Go,  my  winged  verse,  and  try,  — 
Go,  like  Uncle  Toby's  fly  ! 


150  P1WGRA  MME. 


PROGRAMME. 


EADER  —  gentle  —  if  so  be 
Such  still  live,  and  live  for  me, 
Will  it  please  you  to  be  told 
What  my  ten  score  pages  hold  ? 


Here  are  verses  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  needs  must  write, 

Like  the  wine  that  oozes  first 

When  the  unsqueezed  grapes  have  burst. 

Here  are  angry  lines,  "  too  hard  ! " 
Says  the  soldier,  battle-scarred. 
Could  I  smile  his  scars  away 
I  would  blot  the  bitter  lay, 

Written  with  a  knitted  brow, 
Read  with  placid  wonder  now. 
Throbbed  such  passion  in  my  heart  ? 
—  Did  his  wounds  once  really  smart  ? 

Here  are  varied  strains  that  sing 
All  the  changes  life  can  bring, 
Songs  when  joyous  friends  have  met, 
Songs  the  mourner's  tears  have  wet. 

See  the  banquet's  dead  bouquet, 
Fair  and  fragrant  in  its  day ; 


PROGRAMME.  157 

Do  they  read  the  selfsame  lines,  — 
He  that  fasts  and  he  that  dines  ? 

Year  by  year,  like  milestones  placed, 
Mark  the  record  Friendship  traced. 
Prisoned  in  the  walls  of  time 
Life  has  notched  itself  in  rhyme : 

As  its  seasons  slid  along, 
Every  year  a  notch  of  song, 
From  the  June  of  long  ago, 
When  the  rose  was  full  in  blow, 

Till  the  scarlet  sage  has  come 
And  the  cold  chrysanthemum. 
Read,  but  not  to  praise  or  blame ; 
Are  not  all  our  hearts  the  same  ? 

For  the  rest,  they  take  their  chance,  — 
Some  may  pay  a  passing  glance  ; 
Others,  —  well,  they  served  a  turn,  — 
Wherefore  written,  would  you  learn  ? 

Not  for  glory,  not  for  pelf, 
Not,  be  sure,  to  please  myself, 
Not  for  any  meaner  ends,  — 
Always  "by  request  of  friends." 

Here  's  the  cousin  of  a  king,  — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ? 
Here  's  the  first-born  of  a  queen  ; 
Here  's  a  slant-eved  Mandarin. 


158  PROGRAMME. 

Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  — 
—  Figaro  91  and  Figaro  la ! 

Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ?  — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 
(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered,  — yielded,  —  did  my  best. 

Turn  my  pages,  —  never  mind 
If  you  like  not  all  you  find ; 
Think  not  all  the  grains  are  gold 
Sacramento's  sand-banks  hold. 

Every  kernel  has  its  shell, 
Every  chime  its  harshest  bell, 
Every  face  its  weariest  look, 
Every  shelf  its  emptiest  book  ; 

Every  field  its  leanest  sheaf, 
Every  book  its  dullest  leaf, 
Every  leaf  its  weakest  line,  — 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  mine  ? 

Best  for  worst  shall  make  amends, 
Find  us,  keep  us,  leave  us  friends 
Till,  perchance,  we  meet  again. 
Benedicite.  —  Amen ! 
OCTOBER  7, 1874 


IN    THE   QUIET  DAYS. 


IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 


AN  OLD-YEAR   SONG. 

i]S  through  the  forest,  disarrayed 
By  chill  November,  late  I  strayed, 
A  lonely  minstrel  of  the  wood 
Was  singing  to  the  solitude  : 
I  loved  thy  music,  thus  I  said, 
When  o'er  thy  perch  the  leaves  were  spread ; 
Sweet  was  thy  song,  but  sweeter  now 
Thy  carol  on  the  leafless  bough. 

Sing,  little  bird  !   thy  note  shall  cheer 
The  sadness  of  the  dying  year. 

When  violets  pranked  the  turf  with  blue 
And  morning  filled  their  cups  with  dew, 
Thy  slender  voice  with  rippling  trill 
The  budding  April  bowers  would  fill, 
Nor  passed  its  joyous  tones  away 
When  April  rounded  into  May : 
Thy  life  shall  hail  no  second  dawn,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  spring  is  gone- 

VOL.   II.  11 


162  AN  OLD- YEAR  SONG. 

And  I  remember,  —  wcll-a-day  !  — 
Thy  full-blown  snmmer  roimdelay, 
As  when  behind  a  broidered  screen 
Some  holy  maiden  sings  tin  seen  : 
With  answering  notes  the  woodland  rung, 
And  every  tree-top  found  a  tongue. 
How  deep  the  shade  !  the  groves  how  fair ! 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  woods  are  bare. 

The  summer's  throbbing  chant  is  done 
And  mute  the  choral  antiphon  ; 
The  birds  have  left  the  shivering  pines 
To  flit  among  the  trellised  vines, 
Or  fan  the  air  with  scented  plumes 
Amid  the  love-sick  orange-blooms, 
And  thou  art  here  alone,  —  alone,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  rest  have  flown. 

The  snow  has  capped  yon  distant  hill, 
At  morn  the  running  brook  was  still, 
From  driven  herds  the  clouds  that  rise 
Are  like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
Erelong  the  frozen  sod  shall  rnock 
The  ploughshare,  changed  to  stubborn  rock, 
The  brawling  streams  shall  soon  be  dumb,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  frosts  have  come. 

Fast,  fast  the  lengthening  shadows  creep, 
The  songless  fowls  are  half  asleep, 
The  air  grows  chill,  the  setting  sun 
May  leave  thee  ere  thy  song  is  done, 


DOROTHY    Q.  163 

The  pulse  that  warms  thy  breast  grow  cold, 
Thy  secret  die  with  thee,  untold  : 
The  lingering  sunset  still  is  bright, — 

Siiig,  little  bird  !  't  will  soon  be  night. 
1874. 


DOROTHY   Q. 

A   FAMILY    PORTRAIT. 


RANDMOTHER'S  mother :  her  age,  I 

guess, 

Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air  ; 


Smooth,  square  forehead  with  uprolled  hair, 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed  ; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist ; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade  ; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look  !  there  's  a  rent  the  light  shines  through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 

That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 

Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 

Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  svas  not  over  well ; 


164  DOROTHY    Q. 

Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed  ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring, — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land  ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life  ! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 


DOROTHY   Q.  165 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  YES  : 

Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less ; 

But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 

Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 

That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long ! 

There  \v;  re  tones  in  the  voice  that  whispered  then 

You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's,  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid  ! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's  blade, 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished  frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household  name ; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 

As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred  years. 

1871. 


166  THE   ORGAN-BLOWER. 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER. 

rjEVOUTEST  of  my  Sunday  friends, 
The  patient  Organ-blower  bends  ; 
I  see  his  figure  sink  and  rise, 
(Forgive    me,   Heaven,   my  wandering 

eyes  !) 

A  moment  lost,  the  next  half  seen, 
His  head  above  the  scanty  screen, 
Still  measuring  out  his  deep  salaams 
Through  quavering  hymns  and  panting  psalms. 

No  priest  that  prays  in  gilded  stole, 
To  save  a  rich  man's  mortgaged  soul ; 
No  sister,  fresh  from  holy  vows, 
So  humbly  stoops,  so  meekly  bows  ; 
His  large  obeisance  puts  to  shame 
The  proudest  genuflecting  dame, 
Whose  Easter  bonnet  low  descends 
With  all  the  grace  devotion  lends. 

O  brother  with  the  supple  spine, 
How  much  we  owe  those  bows  of  thine  ! 
Without  thine  arm  to  lend  .the  breeze, 
How  vain  the  finger  on  the  keys ! 
Though  all  unmatched  the  player's  skill, 
Those  thousand  throats  were  dumb  and  still : 
Another's  art  may  shape  the  tone, 
The  breath  that  fills  it  is  thine  own. 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER.  167 

Six  days  the  silent  Memnon  waits 
Behind  his  temple's  folded  gates  ; 
But  when  the  seventh  day's  sunshine  falls 
Through  rainbowed  windows  on  the  walls, 
He  breathes,  he  sings,  he  shouts,  he  fills 
The  quivering  air  with  rapturous  thrills; 
The  roof  resounds,  the  pillars  shake, 
And  all  the  slumbering  echoes  wake  ! 

The  Preacher  from  the  Bible-text 
With  weary  words  my  soul  has  vexed 
(Some  stranger,  fumbling  far  astray 
To  find  the  lesson  for  the  day) ; 
He  tells  us  truths  too  plainly  true, 
And  reads  the  service  all  askew,  — 
Why,  why  the,  — mischief,  — can't  he  look 
Beforehand  in  the  service-book  ? 

But  thou,  with  decent  mien  and  face, 
Art  always  ready  in  thy  place ; 
Thy  strenuous  blast,  whatever  the  tune, 
As  steady  as  the  strong  monsoon  ; 
Thy  only  dread  a  leathery  creak, 
Or  small  residual  extra  squeak, 
To  send  along  the  shadowy  aisles 
A  sunlit  wave  of  dimpled  smiles. 

Not  all  the  preaching,  O  my  friend, 
Comes  from  the  church's  pulpit  end ! 
Not  all  that  bend  the  knee  and  bow 
Yield  service  half  so  true  as  thou ! 


168  AT  THE  PANTOMIME. 

One  simple  task  performed  aright, 
With  slender  skill,  but  all  thy  might, 
Where  honest  labor  does  its  best, 
And  leaves  the  player  all  the  rest. 

This  many-diapasoned  maze, 
Through  which  the  breath  of  being  strays, 
Whose  music  makes  our  earth  divine, 
Has  work  for  mortal  hands  like  mine. 
My  duty  lies  before  me.     Lo, 
The  lever  there  I     Take  hold  and  blow  ! 
And  He  whose  hand  is  on  the  keys 
Will  play  the  tune  as  He  shall  please. 
1872. 


AT  THE   PANTOMIME. 

HE  house  was  crammed  from  roof   to 

floor, 

Heads  piled  on  heads  at  every  door  ; 
Half  dead  with  August's  seething  heat 
I  crowded  on  and  found  my  seat, 
My  patience  slightly  out  of  joint, 
My  temper  short  of  boiling-point, 
Not  quite  at  Hate  mankind  as  such, 
Nor  yet  at  Love  them  overmuch. 

Amidst  the  throng  the  pageant  drew 
Were  gathered  Hebrews  not  a  few, 


AT  THE  PANTOMIME.  169 

Black-bearded,  swarthy,  —  at  their  side 
Dark,  jewelled  women,  orient-eyed  : 
If  scarce  a  Christian  hopes  for  grace 
Who  crowds  one  in  his  narrow  place 
What  will  the  savage  victim  do 
Whose  ribs  are  kneaded  by  a  Jew  ? 

Next  on  my  left  a  breathing  form 
Wedged  up  against  me,  close  and  warm; 
The  beak  that  crowned  the  bistred  face 
Betrayed  the  mould  of  Abraham's  race,  — 
That  coal-black  hair,  that  smoke-brown  hue,  — 
Ah,  cursed,  unbelieving  Jew! 
I  started,  shuddering,  to  the  right, 
And  squeezed,  —  a.  second  Israelite  ! 

Then  woke  the  evil  brood  of  rage 
That  slumber,  tongueless,  in  their  cage  ; 
I  stabbed  in  turn  with  silent  oaths 
The  hook-nosed  kite  of  carrion  clothes, 
The  snaky  usurer,  him  that  crawls 
And  cheats  beneath  the  golden  balls, 
Moses  and  Levi,  all  the  horde, 
Spawn  of  the  race  that  slew  its  Lord. 

Up  came  their  murderous  deeds  of  old, 
The  grisly  story  Chaucer  told, 
And  many  an  ugly  tale  beside 
Of  children  caught  and  crucified  ; 
I  heard  the  ducat-sweating  thieves 
Beneath  the  Ghetto's  slouching  eaves, 


170  AT  THE  PANTOMIME. 

And,  thrust  beyond  the  tented  green, 
The  lepers  cry,  "  Unclean  !     Unclean !  " 

The  show  went  on,  but,  ill  at  ease, 

My  sullen  eye  it  could  not  please ; 

In  vain  my  conscience  whispered,  "  Shame ! 

Who  but  their  Maker  is  to  blame  ?  " 

I  thought  of  Judas  and  his  bribe, 

And  steeled  my  soul  against  their  tribe  : 

My  neighbors  stirred  ;  I  looked  again 

Full  on  the  younger  of  the  twain. 

A  fresh  young  cheek  whose  olive  hue 
The  mantling  blood  shows  faintly  through ; 
Locks  dark  as  midnight,  that  divide 
And  shade  the  neck  on  either  side  ; 
Soft,  gentle,  loving  eyes  that  gleam 
Clear  as  a  starlit  mountain  stream  ;  — 
So  looked  that  other  child  of  Shem, 
The  Maiden's  Boy  of  Bethlehem  ! 

—  And  thou  couldst  scorn  the  peerless  blood 
That  flows  unminglcd  from  the  Flood,  — 
Thy  scutcheon  spotted  with  the  stains 
Of  Norman  thieves  and  pirate  Danes  ! 
The  New  World's  foundling,  in  thy  pride 
Scowl  on  the  Hebrew  at  thy  side, 
And  lo  !  the  very  semblance  there 
The  Lord  of  Glory  deigned  to  wear ! 

I  see  that,  radiant  image  rise, 
The  flowing  hair,  the  pitying  eyes, 


AFTER   THE   FIRE.  171 

The  faintly  crimsoned  cheek  that  shows 
The  blush  of  Sharon's  opening  rose, — 
Thy  hands  would  clasp  his  hallowed  feet 
Whose  brethren  soil  thy  Christian  seat ; 
Thy  lips  would  press  his  garment's  hem 
That  curl  in  wrathful  scorn  for  them  ! 

A  sudden  mist,  a  watery  screen, 
Dropped  like  a  veil  before  the  scene  ; 
The  shadow  floated  from  my  soul, 
And  to  my  lips  a  whisper  stole,  — 
'*  Thy  prophets  caught  the  Spirit's  flame, 
From  thee  the  Son  of  Mary  came, 
With  thee  the  Father  deigned  to  dwell,  — 
Peace  be  upon  thee,  Israel !  " 
18—.    Rewritten  1874. 


AFTER   THE   FIRE. 

?HILE  far  along  the  eastern  sky 
I  saw  the  flags  of  Havoc  fly, 
As  if  his  forces  would  assault 
The  sovereign  of  the  starry  vault 

And  hurl  him  back  the  burning  rain 

That  seared  the  cities  of  the  plain, 

I  read  as  on  a  crimson  page 

The  words  of  Israel's  sceptred  sage  :  — 

For  riches  make  them  wings,  and  they 
Do  as  an  eagle  fly  away. 


172  AFTER  THE  FIRE. 

0  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 
What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 
That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 
Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise, 
As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 
And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — 
Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 
How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below  ! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire, 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire  ; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes, 
And  crowned  with  starry-gleaming  vanes, 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-born  splendors  not  her  own, 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice  ! 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 

And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red ; 

As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 

To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 

His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 

How  changed  the  pathways  known  so  well ; 

The  scene,  how  new  !     The  tale,  how  old 

Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold  ! 

Again  I  read  the  words  that  cnme 
Writ  in  the  rubric  of  the  flame : 
Howe'er  we  trust  to  mortal  things, 
Each  hath  its  pair  of  folded  wings  ; 


THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY.          173 

Though  long  their  terrors  rest  nospread 
Their  fatal  plumes  are  never  shod  ; 
At  last,  at  last,  they  stretch  iu  flight, 
And  blot  the  day  and  blast  the  night ! 

Hope,  only  Hope,  of  all  that  clings 
Around  us,  never  spreads  her  wings ; 
Love,  though  he  break  his  earthly  chain, 
Still  whispers  he  will  come  again  ; 
But  Faith  that  soars  to  seek  the  sky 
Shall  teach  our  half-fledged  souls  to  fly, 
And  find,  beyond  the  smoke  and  flame, 
The  cloudless  azure  whence  they  came ! 

1872. 


A   BALLAD   OF  THE   BOSTON  TEA- 
PARTY. 


0  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 
Her  over-kind  protector,  — 


Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No !  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 
As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

That  night  in  Boston  Harbor  ! 


174          THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  sevenscore  millions  saddled  ; 
Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained, 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ; 
Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 
And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 

Her  tearful  memories  treasured  ; 
Fast  spread  the  tempest's  darkening  pall, 

The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 
The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 

The  Boston  teapot  bubbled  ! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation, 
No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,  no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  Red  men,  axe  in  hand,  — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing  ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered  ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered  ; 
The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,  — 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing  ; 


THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY.          175 

The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing  ; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  adze, 

And  trot  behind  their  master ; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads,  — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  — 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush 

The  streams  of  white-faced  millers, 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers ; 
The  ropewalk  lends  its  'prentice  crew, — 

The  tories  seize  the  omen: 
"  Ay,  boys,  you  '11  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemen, 
'  King  Hancock/  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,  — 
When  these  we  shoot  and  those  we  hang 

The  town  will  come  to  reason." 

On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride ! 

And  now  their  ranks  are  forming,  — 
A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming ! 
See  the  fierce  natives  !     What  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together ! 
A  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the  breeches,  — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches ! 


176    THE  BOSTON  TEA  PARTY. 

O  woman,  at  the  evening  board 

So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 
So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured, 

So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 
What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee, 

The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter, 
That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 

Condemned  to  milk  and  water ! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle  ! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other  ! 
Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  h;is  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack, 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 
The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers ; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers  ! 

The  waves  that  wrought  a  century's  wreck 
Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory ; 

The  Mohawks  on  the  Dartmouth's  deck 
Still  live  in  song  and  story ; 

The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 
Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor  ; 


NEARING   THE  SNOW-LINE.         177 

Our  old  North-Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor  ; 
And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 

With  ever  fresh  libations, 
To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 

And  cheer  the  wakening  nations  I 

1874. 


NEARING  THE  SNOW-LINE, 

1LOW    toiling   upward    from  the   misty 

vale, 

I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  be 
low; 
No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall 

glow, 

Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 
That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 
Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow  ; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires ! 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 
And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine ! 
1870. 

VOL.   II.  12 


IN   WAR   TIME0 


IN  WAR  TIME. 

TO   CANAAN. 

A   PURITAN   WAR-SOXG. 

( HERE  are  you  going,  soldiers, 

With  banner,  gun,  and  sword  ? 
We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 

To  battle  for  the  Lord  ! 
What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts  ? 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  blow  before  the  heathen  walls 
The  trumpets  of  the  North  ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  carry 

Along  the  sea  and  shore  ? 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up,  — 

The  same  our  fathers  bore  ! 


182  TO   CANAAN. 

In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain,  — 
What  God  has  woven  in  his  loom 
Let  no  man  rend  in  twain  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North  ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 

All  armed  with  picks  and  spades  ? l 
These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen,  — 

The  iron-skin  brigades  ! 
They  '11  pile  up  Freedom's  breastwork, 

They  '11  scoop  out  rebels'  graves  ; 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 
And  march  them  off  for  slaves  ? 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North  ! 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing  ? 

The  same  that  Israel  sung 
When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung  ! 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 

The  priests  and  maidens  cried  : 

1  The  captured  slaves  were  at  this  time  organized  as  pio 
neers. 


THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD.  183 

To  Canaan  I     To  Canaan  ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 
The  anthems  of  the  North  ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat, 
What  follows  next  in  order  ? 

—  The  Lord  will  see  to  that ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre,  — 

We  '11  build  the  people's  throne, — 
When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's, 
Then  all  the  world's  our  own  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North  ! 
AUGUST  12, 1862. 


"THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD,  I  OFFER 
THEE  THREE  THINGS." 

N  poisonous  dens,  where  traitors  hide 

Like  bats  that  fear  the  day, 
While  all  the  land  our  charters  claim 
Is  sweating  blood  and  breathing  flame, 
Dead  to  their  country's  woe  and  shame, 
The  recreants  whisper  STAY! 


184  THUS  SA1TH  THE  LORD. 

In  peaceful  homes,  where  patriot  fires 

On  Love's  own  altars  glow, 
The  mother  hides  her  trembling  fear, 
The  wife,  the  sister,  checks  a  tear, 
To  breathe  the  parting  word  of  cheer, 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  Go  ! 

In  halls  where  Luxury  lies  at  ease, 

And  Mammon  keeps  his  state, 
Where  flatterers  fawn  and  menials  crouch, 
The  dreamer,  startled  from  his  couch, 
Wrings  a  few  counters  from  his  pouch, 
And  murmurs  faintly  WAIT  ! 

In  weary  camps,  on  trampled  plains 

That  ring  with  fife  and  drum, 
The  battling  host,  whose  harness  gleams 
Along  the  crimson-flowing  streams, 
Calls,  like  a  warning  voice  in  dreams, 
We  want  you,  Brother  !     COME  ! 

Choose  ye  whose  bidding  ye  will  do,  — 

To  go,  to  \vait,  to  stay  ! 
Sons  of  the  Freedom-loving  town, 
Heirs  of  the  Fathers1  old  renown, 
The  servile  yoke,  the  civic  crown, 

Await  your  choice  TO-DAY  ! 

The  stake  is  laid !     0  gallant  youth 

With  yet  unsilvered  brow, 
If  Heaven  should  lose  and  Hell  should  win, 


NEVER   OR  NOW.  185 

On  whom  shall  lie  the  mortal  sin, 
That  cries  aloud,  It  might  have  been  ? 
God  calls  you,  — answer  NOW. 

1862. 


NEVER  OR  NOW. 

AN   APPEAL. 

,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is 
calling ! 
Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave 

and  the  true ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling, 
Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you  ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame ! 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of  shame ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasp- 

*ing! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in  his  pall ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasp 
ing, — 
"  Off  for  the  wars !  "  is  enough  for  them  all ! 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you! 
Hark  !  't  is  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are  drawn ! 


186  NEVER  OR  NOW. 

Mothers  shall  pray  for  yon,  fathers  shall  bless  you, 
Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gone  ! 

Never  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 
Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  rose  should 
bloom ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation,  — 
Never  or  now !  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom  ! 

Never  or  now !  roars  the  hoarse-throated  cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  the  skies  ; 

Never  or  now !  flaps  the  shell  blasted  pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland  lies ! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their  birth,  — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs  are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  outnum 
bered, 

Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's  plough, 
Comes  the  loud  summons ;  too-  long  you  have  slum 
bered, 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump,  —  Never  or  Now  ! 

1862. 


ONE  COUNTRY.  187 


ONE   COUNTRY. 


NE  country!     Treason's  writhing  asp 
Struck  madly  at  her  girdle's  clasp, 
And  Hatred  wrenched  with  might  and 

main 

To  rend  its  welded  links  in  twain, 
While  Mammon  hugged  his  golden  calf 
Content  to  take  one  broken  half, 
While  thankless  churls  stood  idly  by 
And  heard  unmoved  a  nation's  cry  ! 

One  country  !     "  Nay/'  —  the  tyrant  crew 
Shrieked  from  their  dens,  —  "  it  shall  be  two  ! 
Ill  bodes  to  us  this  monstrous  birth, 
That  scowls  on  all  the  thrones  of  earth, 
Too  broad  yon  starry  cluster  shines, 
Too  proudly  tower  the  New- World  pines, 
Tear  down  the  '  banner  of  the  free/ 
And  cleave  their  land  from  sea  to  sea  !  " 

One  country  still,  though  foe  and  "  friend  " 
Our  seamless  empire  strove  to  rend ; 
Safe  !  safe  !  though  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Join  the  red  murderers'  battle-yell ! 
What  though  the  lifted  sabres  gleam, 
The  cannons  frown  by  shore  and  stream,  — 
The  sabres  clash,  the  cannons  thrill, 
In  wild  accord,  One  country  still ! 


188  GOD  SAVE   THE  FLAG. 

One  country  !  in  her  stress  and  strain 
We  heard  the  breaking  of  a  chain  ! 
Look  where  the  conquering  Nation  swings 
Her  iron  flail,  —  its  shivered  rings  ! 
Forged  by  the  rebels'  crimson  hand, 
That  bolt  of  wrath  shall  scourge  the  land 
Till  Peace  proclaims  on  sea  and  shore 
One  Country  now  and  evermore  ! 


GOD   SAVE  THE  FLAG  ! 

CASHED  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and 

the  blooming, 
Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent 

foes, 

Burning  with  star-fires,  but  never  consuming, 
Flash  its  broad  ribbons  of  lily  and  rose. 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend  it, 
Vainly  his  worshippers  pray  for  its  fall ; 

Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  defend  it, 
Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all : 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her  terrors, 
Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white-handed  train, 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  errors, 
Sheathing  the  sabre  and  breaking  the  chain. 

Borne  on  the  deluge  of  old  usurpations, 
Drifted  our  Ark  o'er  the  desolate  seasr 


HYMN.  189 

Bearing  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  nations, 

Torn    from   the  storm-cloud   and   flung   to   th« 
breeze ! 

God  bless  the  Flag  and  its  loyal  defenders, 
While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battle-field  wave, 

Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its  splendors, 
Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of  the  brave ! 

1865. 


HYMN 

AFTER   THE    EMANCIPATION   PROCLAMATION. 


JIVER  of  all  that  crowns  our  clays, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  sing  thy  praise ; 
Through  deep  and  desert  led  by  thee, 
Our  promised  land  at  last  we  see. 


Ruler  of  Nations,  judge  our  cause  ! 
If  we  have  kept  thy  holy  laws, 
The  sons  of  Belial  curse  in  vain 
The  day  that  rends  the  captive's  chain. 

Thou  God  of  vengeance !     Israel's  Lord  ! 
Break  in  their  grasp  the  shield  and  sword, 
And  make  thy  righteous  judgments  known 
Till  all  thy  foes  are  overthrown  ! 

Then,  Father,  lay  thy  healing  hand 
In  mercy  on  our  stricken  land ; 


190  HYMN. 

Lead  all  its  wanderers  to  the  fold, 
And  be  their  Shepherd  as  of  old. 

So  shall  one  Nation's  song  ascend 
To  thee,  our  Ruler,  Father,  Friend, 
While  heaven's  wide  arch  resounds  again 
With  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 
1865. 


HYMN 

FOR   THE   FAIR  AT   CHICAGO. 

GOD  !  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 

In  battle's  deadliest  field, 
Thy  name  has  been  our  Nation's  tower, 

Thy  truth  her  help  and  shield. 


Our  lips  should  fill  the  air  with  praise, 

Nor  pay  the  debt  we  owe, 
So  high  above  the  songs  we  raise 

The  floods  of  mercy  flow. 

Yet  thou  wilt  hear  the  prayer  we  speak, 
The  song  of  praise  we  sing,  — 

Thy  children,  who  thine  altar  seek 
Their  grateful  gifts  to  bring. 

Thine  altar  is  the  sufferer's  bed, 
The  home  of  woe  and  pain, 


HYMN.  191 

The  soldier's  turfy  pillow,  red 
With  battle's  crimson  rain. 

No  smoke  of  burning  stains  the  air, 

No  incense-clouds  arise ; 
Thy  peaceful  servants,  Lord,  prepare 

A  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Lo !  for  our  wounded  brothers'  need 

We  bear  the  wine  and  oil ; 
For  us  they  faint,  for  us  they  bleed, 

For  them  our  gracious  toil ! 

O  Father,  bless  the  gifts  we  bring ! 

Cause  thou  thy  face  to  shine, 
Till  eyery  nation  owns  her  King, 

And  all  the  earth  is  thine. 

1865. 


SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND 
FAREWELL. 


r 


VOL.  n          13 


SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND 
FAREWELL. 


AMERICA   TO   RUSSIA. 

AUGUST    5,    1866. 

READ   BY  HON.   G.   V.   FOX  AT  A  DINNER    GIVEN  TO   THE   MISSION 
FROM  THE  UNITED    STATES,   ST.   PETERSBURG. 


HOUGH  watery  deserts  hold  apart 

The  worlds  of  East  and  West, 
Still  beats  the  selfsame  human  heart 
In  each  proud  Nation's  breast. 


Our  floating  turret  tempts  the  main 
And  dares  the  howling  blast 

To  clasp  more  close  the  golden  chain 
That  long  has  bound  them  fast. 

In  vain  the  gales  of  ocean  sweep, 

In  vain  the  billows  roar 
That  chafe  the  wild  and  stormy  steep 

Of  storied  Elsinore. 


196  AMERICA   TO  RUSSIA. 

She  comes  !     She  comes  !  her  banners  dip 

In  Neva's  flashing  tide, 
With  greetings  on  her  cannon's  lip, 

The  storm-god's  iron  bride  ! 

Peace  garlands  with  the  olive-bough 

Her  thunder-bearing  tower, 
And  plants  before  her  cleaving  prow 

The  sea-foam's  milk-white  flower. 

No  prairies  heaped  their  garnered  store 

To  fill  her  sunless  hold, 
Not  rich  Nevada's  gleaming  ore 

Its  hidden  caves  infold  ; 

j 
But  lightly  as  the  sea-bird  swings 

She  floats  the  depths  above, 
A  breath  of  flame  to  lend  her  wings, 

Her  freight  a  people's  love ! 

When  darkness  hid  the  starry  skies 

In  war's  long  winter  night, 
One  ray  still  cheered  our  straining  eyes, 

The  far-off  Northern  light ! 

And  now  the  friendly  rays  return 

From  lights  that  glow  afar, 
Those  clustered  lamps  of  heaven  that  burn 

Around  the  Western  Star. 

A  nation's  love  in  tears  and  smiles 
We  bear  across  the  sea, 


WELCOME  TO  THE  DUKE  ALEXIS.     197 

O  Neva  of  the  banded  isles, 
We  moor  our  hearts  in  thee ! 


WELCOME  TO  THE  GRAND  DUKE 
ALEXIS. 

MtSIC    HALL,   DECEMBER    9,    1871. 

SUNG  TO  THE   RUSSIAN  NATIONAL   AIR  BY  THE   CHILDREN  OF  THE 
PUBLIC   SCHOOLS. 

^HADOWED  so  long  by  the  storm-cloud 

of  danger, 
Thou  whom  the  prayers  of  an  empire 

defend, 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  !  but  not  as  a  stranger, 
Come  to  the  nation  that  calls  thee  its  friend  ! 

Bleak  are  our  shores  with  the  blasts  of  December, 

Fettered  and  chill  is  the  rivulet's  flow ; 
Throbbing    and    warm    are    the    hearts    that   re 
member 

Who  was  our  friend  when  the  world  was  our 
foe. 

Look  on  the  lips  that  are  smiling  to  greet  thee  ; 

See  the  fresh  flowers  that  a  people  has  strewn  : 
Count   them  thy  sisters   and   brothers   that   meet 
thee ; 

Guest  of  the  Nation,  her  heart  is  thine  own  ! 


198    BANQUET  TO  THE  DUKE  ALEXIS. 

Fires  of  the  North,  in  eternal  communion, 

Blend  your  broad  flashes  with  evening's  bright 
star ! 

God  bless  the  Empire  that  loves  the  Great  Union ; 
Strength  to  her  people  !     Long  life  to  the  Czar  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  .GRAND 
DUKE  ALEXIS. 

DECEMBER    9,   1871. 

\  NE  word  to  the  guest  we  have  gathered 

to  greet ! 
The  echoes   are  longing  that  word  to 

repeat,  — 

It  springs  to  the  lips  that  are  waiting  to  part, 
For  its  syllables  spell  themselves  first  in  the  heart. 

Its  accents  may  vary,  its  sound  may  be  strange, 
But  it  bears  a  kind  message   that   nothing  can 

change ; 

The  dwellers  by  Neva  its  meaning  can  tell, 
For  the  smile,  its  interpreter,  shows  it  full  well. 

That  word !     How  it  gladdened   the   Pilgrim  of 

yore, 

As  he  stood  in  the  snow  on  the  desolate  shore  ! 
When  the  shout  of  the  Sagamore  startled  his  ear 
In  the  phrase  of  the  Saxon,  't  was  music  to  hear  ! 


BANQUET  TO  THE  DUKE  ALEXIS.     199 

Ah,  little  could  Samoset  offer  our  sire,  — 

The  cabin,  the  corn-cake,  the  seat  by  the  fire  ; 

He  had  nothing  to  give,  —  the  poor  lord  of  the 

land,  — 
But  he  gave  him  a  WELCOME,  —  his  heart  in  his 

hand  ! 

The  tribe  of  the  Sachem  has  melted  away, 
But  the  word  that  he  spoke  is  remembered  to-day, 
And  the  page  that  is  red  with  the  record  of  shame 
The  tear-drops  have  whitened    round   Samoset's 
name. 

The  word  that  he  spoke  to  the  Pilgrim  of  old 
May  sound  like  a  tale  that  has  often  been  told ; 
But  the   welcome  we    speak    is  as  fresh  as  the 

dew,  — 
As  the  kiss  of  a  lover,  that  always  is  new  ! 

Ay,  Guest  of  the  Nation  !  each  roof  is  thine  own 

Through  all  the  broad  continent's  star-bannered 
zone; 

From  the  shore  where  the  curtain  of  morn  is  up- 
rolled, 

To  the  billows  that  flow  through  the  gateway  of 
gold. 

The  snow-crested  mountains  are  calling  aloud ; 
Nevada  to  Ural  speaks  out  of  the  cloud, 
And  Shasta  shouts  forth,  from  his  throne  in  the  sky, 
To    the   storm-splintered   summits,  the  peaks  of 
Altai ! 


200    BANQUET  TO  THE  DUKE  ALEXIS. 

You  must  leave  him,  they  say,  till  the  summer  is 

green  ! 
Both  shores  are  his  home,  though  the  waves  roll 

between ; 
And  then  we  '11  return  him,  with  thanks  for  tho 

same, 
As  fresh  and  as  smiling  and  tall  as  he  came. 

But  ours  is  the  region  of  Arctic  delight ; 
We  can  show  him  Auroras  and  pole-stars  by  night ; 
There  's  a  Muscovy  sting  in  the  ice-tempered  air, 
And  our  firesides  are  warm  and  our  maidens  are 
fair. 

The  flowers  are  full-blown  in  the  garlanded  hall, — 
They  will  bloom  round  his  footsteps  wherever  they 

fall; 
For  the  splendors  of  youth  and  the  sunshine  they 

bring 
Make  the  roses  believe  't  is  the  summons  of  Spring. 

One  word  of  our  language  he  needs  must  know 

well, 

But  another  remains  that  is  harder  to  spell ; 
We  shall  speak  it  so  ill,  if  he  wishes  to  learn 
How  we  utter  Farewell,  he  will  have  to  return ! 


BANQUET  TO  CHINESE  EMBASSY.    201 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO   THE   CHINESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST  21,  1868. 

ROTHERS,  whom  we  may  not  reach 
Through  the  veil  of  alien  speech, 
Welcome  !  welcome  !  eyes  can  tell 
What  the  lips  in  vain  would  spell, 
Words  that  hearts  can  understand, 
Brothers  from  the  Flowery  Land  ! 

We,  the  evening's  latest  born, 
Hail  the  children  of  the  morn  ! 
We,  the  new  creation's  birth, 
Greet  the  lords  of  ancient  earth, 
From  their  storied  walls  and  towers 
Wandering  to  these  tents  of  ours ! 

Land  of  wonders,  fair  Cathay, 

Who  long  hast  shunned  the  staring  day, 

Hid  in  mists  of  poet's  dreams 

By  thy  blue  and  yellow  streams,  — 

Let  us  thy  shadowed  form  behold,  — 

Teach  us  as  thou  didst  of  old. 

Knowledge  dwells  with  length  of  days ; 
Wisdom  walks  in  ancient  ways  ; 
Thine  the  compass  that  could  guide 
A  nation  o'er  the  stormy  tide, 


202    BANQUET  TO  CHINESE  EMBASSY. 

Scourged  by  passions,  doubts,  and  fears, 
Safe  through  thrice  a  thousand  years  ! 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Thou  hast  seen  the  world's  decay,  — 
Egypt  drowning  in  her  sands,  — 
Athens  rent  by  robbers'  hands,  — 
Rome,  the  wild  barbarian's  prey, 
Like  the  storm-cloud  swept  away  : 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Still  we  see  thee.    Where  are  they  ? 
And  lo  !  a  new-born  nation  waits, 
Sitting  at  the  golden  gates 
That  glitter  by  the  sunset  sea,  — 
Waits  with  outspread  arms  for  thee ! 

Open  wide,  ye  gates  of  gold, 
To  the  Dragon's  banner-fold ! 
Builders  of  the  mighty  wall, 
Bid  your  mountain  barriers  fall ! 
So  may  the  girdle  of  the  sun 
Bind  the  East  and  West  in  one, 

Till  Mount  Shasta's  breezes  fan 
The  snowy  peaks  of  Ta  Sieue-Shan,  — 
Till  Erie  blends  its  waters  blue 
With  the  waves  of  Tung-Ting-Hu, — 
Till  deep  Missouri  lends  its  flow 
To  swell  the  rushing  Hoang-Ho  ! 


BANQUET  TO  JAPANESE  EMBASSY.    203 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO   THE    JAPANESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST  2,  1872. 

JE  welcome  you,  Lords  of  the  Land  of  the 

Sun! 
The  voice  of  the  many  sounds  feebly 

through  one ; 
Ah  !  would  't  were  a  voice  of  more  musical  tone, 
But  the  dog-star  is  here,  and  the  song-birds  havo 
flown. 

And  what  shall  I  sing  that  can  cheat  you  of  smiles, 
Ye  heralds  of  peace  from  the  Orient  isles  ? 
If  only  the  Jubilee  —     Why  did  you  wait  ? 
You  are  welcome,  but  oh  !  you  're  a  little  too  late  ! 

We   have  greeted  our  brothers    of    Ireland   and 

France, 
Round  the  fiddle  of  Strauss  we  have  joined  in  the 

dance, 

We  have  lagered  Herr  Saro,  that  fine-looking  man, 
And  glorified  Godfrey,  whose  name  it  is  Dan. 

What  a  pity  !  we  Ve  missed  it  and  you  Ve  missed 

it  too, 
We  had  a  day  ready  and  waiting  for  you ; 


204    BANQUET  TO  JAPANESE  EMBASSY. 

We  'd  have  shown  yon, —  provided,  of  course,  you 

had  come,  — 
You  'd  have  heard,  — no,  you  would  n't,  because  it 

was  dumb. 

And  then  the  great  organ  !     The  chorus's  shout ! 

Like  the  mixture  teetotalers  call,  "Cold  with 
out  "  — 

A  mingling  of  elements,  strong,  but  not  sweet ; 

And  the  drum,  just  referred  to,  that  "  could  n't  be 
beat." 

The  shrines  of  our  pilgrims  are  not  like  your  own, 
Where  white  Fusiyama  lifts  proudly  its  cone, 
(The  snow-mantled  mountain  \ve  see  on  the  fan 
That  cools  our  hot  cheeks  with  a  breeze  from 
Japan.) 

But  ours  the  wide  temple  where  worship  is  free 
As  the  wind  of  the  prairie,  the  wave  of  the  sea ; 
You  may  build  your  own  altar  wherever  you  will, 
For  the  roof  of  that  temple  is  over  you  still. 

One  dome  overarches  the  star-bannered  shore ; 
You  may  enter  the  Pope's  or  the  Puritan's  door, 
Or  pass  with  the  Buddhist  his  gateway  of  bronze, 
For  a  priest  is  but  Man,  be  he  bishop  or  bonze. 

And  the  lesson  we  teach  with  the  sword  and  the 

pen 
Is  to  all  of  God's  children,  "  We  also  are  men  ! 


BANQUET  TO  JAPANESE  EMBASSY.    205 

If  you  wrong  us  we  smart,  if  you  prick  us  we 

bleed, 
If  you  love  us,  no  quarrel  with  color  or  creed  ! " 

You  '11  find  us  a  well-meaning,  free-spoken  crowd, 
Good-natured  enough,  hut  a  little  too  loud,  — 
To  be  sure  there  is  always  a  bit  of  a  row 
When  we  choose  our  Tycoon,  and  especially  now. 

You  '11  take  it  all  calmly,  —  we  want  you  to  see 
What  a  peaceable  fight  such  a  contest  can  be, 
And  of  one  thing  be  certain,  however  it  ends, 
You  will  find  that  our  voters  have  chosen  your 
friends. 

If  the  horse  that  stands  saddled  is  first  in  the  race, 
You  will  greet  your  old  friend  with  the  weed  in  his 

face ; 

And  if  the  white  hat  and  the  White  House  agree, 
You  '11  find  H.  G.  really  as  loving  as  he. 

But  O,  what  a  pity  —  once  more  I  must  say  — 
That  we  could  not  have  joined  in  a  "  Japanese 

day  " ! 

Such  greeting  we  give  you  to-night  as  we  can ; 
Long  life  to  our  brothers  and  friends  of  Japan  ! 

The  Lord  of  the  mountain  looks  down  from  his 

crest 
As  the  banner  of  morning  unfurls  in  the  West ; 


206    BRYANTS  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

The  Eagle  was  always  the  friend  of  the  Sun  ; 
You  are  welcome  !  —  The  song  of  the  cage-bird  is 
done. 


BKYANT'S   SEVENTIETH  BIKTHDAY. 

NOVEMBER   3,    1864. 


EVEN-HANDED  Nature !  we  confess 
This  life  that  men  so  honor,  love,  and 

bless 
Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.    Not  the 

less 


We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  remain  ; 

Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 

But  heap  it  high  with  years,  that  earth  may  gain 

What  heaven   can  lose, — for  heaven  is   rich  in 

song : 

Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 
Their  broken  chants  amid  the  seraph  throng, 

Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is  seen, 
And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits  between 
The  Mantuan  and  the  wan-cheeked  Florentine? 

—  This  was  the  first  sweet  singer  in  the  cage 
Of  our  close-woven  life.     A  new-born  age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage  : 


BRYANTS  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY.      207 

Spare  us,  O,  spare  us  long  our  heart's  desire ! 
Moloch,  who  calls  our  children  through  the  fire, 
Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 

We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  the  sun 

The  hours,  the  minutes,  that  his  sands  have  run ; 

Rather,  as  on  those  flowers  that  one  by  one 

From  earliest  dawn  their  ordered  bloom  display 
Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding  ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the  day, 

We  reckon  by  his  songs,  each  song  a  flower, 

The  long,  long  daylight,  numbering  hour  by  hour, 

Each  breathing  sweetness  like  a  bridal  bower. 

His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget  ? 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet  ? 
His  evening  primrose  has  not  opened  yet ; 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide  the  skies 
In  midnight  from  his  century-laden  eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would  not  some  hidden  song-bud  open  bright 
As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 
That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance   and  with 
light  ? 

—  How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  music  flows 
With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close, 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the  rose  ? 


208    BRYANTS  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  days 

He  faltered  never,  —  nor  for  blame,  nor  praise, 

Nor  hire,  nor  party,  shamed  his  earlier  lays  ? 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
So  to  his  youth  his  manly  years  were  true, 
All  dyed  in  royal  purple  through  and  through ! 

He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven  is  strung 
Needs  not  the  flattering  toil  of  mortal  tongue  : 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung  ! 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  mankind  : 

In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find, 

In  his  own  page  his  memory  lives  enshrined, 

As  in  their  amber  sweets  the  smothered  bees,  — 
As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the  breeze, 
Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  mouldering  trees. 

—  Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never  grow 
Out  of  their  mother's  fondness.  Nature  so 
Holds  their  soft  hands,  and  will  not  let  them  go, 

Till  at  the  last  they  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic,  footsteps,  and  their  pulses  beat 
Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips  repeat 

The  secrets  she  has  told  them,  as  their  own  : 
Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Nature  known, 
And  the  rapt  minstrel  shares  her  awful  throne ! 


BRYANTS  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY.    209 

O  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods, 

Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes, 

Where  Love  himself  with  tremulous  step  intrudes, 

Her  snows  fall  harmless  on  thy  sacred  fire  : 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding  lyre 
To  join  the  nmsic  of  the  angel  choir  ! 

Yet  since  life's  amplest  measure  must  be  filled, 
Since  throbbing  hearts  must  be  forever  stilled, 
And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets  gild, 

Grant,  Father,  ere  he  close  the  mortal  eyes 

That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice, 

Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  blackened  skies  ! 

Then,  when  his  summons    comes,  since    come  it 

must, 

And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfaltering  trust, 
He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the  dust, 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er  his  head 
The  Northern  fires  beyond  the  zenith  spread 
In  lambent  glory,  blue  and  white  and  red,  — 

The  Southern  cross  without  its  bleeding  load, 
The  milky  way  of  peace  all  freshly  strowed, 
And  every  white-throned    star    fixed  in  its  lost 
abode ! 

VOL,  II.  14 


210      DINNER  TO   GENERAL   GRANT. 

AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 
JULY  31,  1865. 

HEN  treason  first  began  the  strife 
That  crimsoned  sea  and  shore, 
The  Nation  poured  her  hoarded  life 

On  Freedom's  threshing-floor ; 
From  field  and  prairie,  east  and  west, 

From  coast  and  hill  and  plain, 
The  sheaves  of  ripening  manhood  pressed 
Thick  as  the  bearded  grain. 

Rich  was  the  harvest ;  souls  as  true 

As  ever  battle  tried ; 
But  fiercer  still  the  conflict  grew, 

The  floor  of  death  more  wide  ; 
Ah,  who  forgets  that  dreadful  day 

Whose  blot  of  grief  and  shame 
Four  bitter  years  scarce  wash  away 

In  seas  of  blood  and  flame  ? 

Vain,  vain  the  Nation's  lofty  boasts,  — 

Vain  all  her  sacrifice  ! 
"  Give  me  a  man  to  lead  my  hosts, 

O  God  in  heaven  !  "  she  cries. 
While  Battle  whirls  his  crushing  flail, 

And  plies  his  winnowing  fan,  — 
Thick  flies  the  chaff  on  every  gale,  — 
*  She  cannot  find  her  man  ! 


DINNER  TO   GENERAL   GRANT.      211 

And  now  the  heavens  grow  black  with  doubt, 

The  ravens  fill  the  sky, 
"  Friends  "  plot  within,  foes  storm  without, 

Hark,  —  that  despairing  cry, 
"  Where  is  the  heart,  the  hand,  the  brain 

To  dare,  to  do,  to  plan  ?  " 
The  bleeding  Nation  shrieks  in  vain,  — 
She  has  not  found  her  man  ! 

A  little  echo  stirs  the  air,  — 

Some  tale,  whatever  it  be, 
Of  rebels  routed  in  their  lair 

Along  the  Tennessee. 
The  little  echo  spreads  and  grows, 

And  soon  the  trump  of  Fame 
Had  taught  the  Nation's  friends  and  foes 

The  "  man  on  horseback  "  's  name. 

So  well  his  warlike  wooing  sped, 

No  fortress  might  resist 
His  billets-doux  of  lisping  lead, 

The  bayonets  in  his  fist,  — 
With  kisses  from  his  cannons'  mouth 

He  made  his  passion  known 
Till  Vicksburg,  vestal  of  the  South, 

Unbound  her  virgin  zone. 

And  still  where'er  his  banners  led 

He  conquered  as  he  came, 
The  trembling  hosts  of  treason  fled 

Before  his  breath  of  flame, 


212     DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT. 

And  Fame's  still  gathering  echoes  grew 
Till  high  o'er  Richmond's  towers 

The  starry  fold  of  Freedom  flew, 
And  all  the  land  was  ours. 

Welcome  from  fields  where  valor  fought 

To  feasts  where  pleasure  waits ; 
A  Nation  gives  you  smiles  unbought 

At  all  her  opening  gates  ! 
Forgive  us  when  we  press  your  hand,  — 

Your  war-worn  features  scan,  — 
God  sent  you  to  a  bleeding  land  ; 

Our  Nation  found  its  man  ! 


AT  A  DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT. 
JULY  6,  1865. 

OW,  smiling  friends  and  shipmates  all, 

Since  half  our  battle  's  won, 
A  broadside  for  our  Admiral ! 

—  Load  every  crystal  gun  ! 
Stand  ready  till  I  give  the  word,  — 

—  You  won't  have  time  to  tire,  — 
And  when  that  glorious  name  is  heard, 
Then  hip  !  hurrah !  and  fire  ! 

Bow  foremost  sinks  the  rebel  craft,  — 
Our  eyes  not  sadly  turn 


DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT.    213 

And  see  the  pirates  huddling  aft 

To  drop  their  raft  astern  ; 
Soon  o'er  the  sea-worm's  destined  prey 

The  lifted  wave  shall  close,  — 
So  perish  from  the  face  of  day 

All  Freedom's  handed  foes  ! 

But  ah  !  what  splendors  fire  the  sky  ! 

What  glories  greet  the  morn ! 
The  storm-tost  banner  streams  on  high, 

Its  heavenly  hues  new-born  ! 
Its  red  fresh  dyed  in  heroes'  blood, 

Its  peaceful  white  more  pure, 
To  float  unstained  o'er  field  and  flood 

While  earth  and  seas  endure  ! 

All  shapes  before  the  driving  blast 

Must  glide  from  mortal  view  ; 
Black  roll  the  billows  of  the  past 

Behind  the  present's  blue  ; 
Fast,  fast,  are  lessening  in  the  light 

The  names  of  high  renown,  — 
Van  Tromp's  proud  besom  fades  from  sight, 

And  Nelson  's  half  hull  down ! 

Scarce  one  tall  frigate  walks  the  sea 

Or  skirts  the  safer  shores 
Of  all  that  bore  to  victory 

Our  stout  old  Commodores ; 
Hull,  Bainbridge,  Porter, — where  are  they? 

The  waves  their  answer  roll, 


214  A  TOAST  TO  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

"  Still  bright  in  memory's  sunset  ray,  — 
God  rest  each  gallant  soul !  " 

A  brighter  name  must  dim  their  light 

With  more  than  noontide  ray, 
The  Sea- King  of  the  "  River  Fight," 

The  Conqueror  of  the  Bay,  — 
Now  then  the  broadside  !  cheer  on  cheer 

To  greet  him  safe  on  shore  ! 
Health,  peace,  and  many  a  bloodless  year 

To  fight  his  battles  o'er  ! 


A   TOAST   TO   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

FEBRUARY    16,    1874. 

HE  painter's  and  the  poet's  fame 
Shed    their   twinned    lustre   round   his 

name, 

To  gild  our  story-teller's  art, 
Where  each  in  turn  must  play  his  part. 

What  scenes  from  Wilkie's  pencil  sprung, 
The  minstrel  saw  but  left  unsung  ! 
What  shapes  the  pen  of  Collins  drew, 
No  painter  clad  in  living  hue ! 

But  on  our  artist's  shadowy  screen 
A  stranger  miracle  is  seen 


TO  II.   W.  LONGFELLOW.  215 

Than  priest  unveils  or  pilgrim  seeks,  — 
The  poem  breathes,  the  picture  speaks ! 

And  so  his  double  name  comes  true, 
They  christened  better  than  they  knew, 
And  Art  proclaims  him  twice  her  son,  — 
Painter  and  poet,  both  in  one  ! 


TO  H.  W.   LONGFELLOW. 

BEFORE    HIS     DEPARTURE    FOR    EUROPE,    MAY   27, 

1868. 

[|UR   Poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western 

breeze 
To  waft  his  songs   before  him  o'er  the 

seas, 

Will  find  them  wheresoe'er  his  wanderings  reach 
Borne  on  the  spreading  tide  of  English  speech 
Twin  with  the  rhythmic  waves  that  kiss  the  far 
thest  beach. 

Where  shall  the  singing  bird  a  stranger  be 
That  finds  a  nest  for  him  in  every  tree  ? 
How  shall  he  travel  who  can  never  go 
Where  his  own  voice  the  echoes  do  not  know, 
Where  his  own  garden  flowers  no  longer  learn  to 
grow  q. 


216  TO  H.   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

Ah,  gentlest  soul !  how  gracious,  how  benign 
Breathes  through  our  troubled  life  that  voice  of 

thine, 

Filled  with  a  sweetness  born  of  happier  spheres, 
That  wins    and  warms,   that    kindles,   softens, 

cheers, 
That  calms  the  wildest  woe  and  stays  the  bitterest 

tears  ! 

Forgive  the  simple  words  that  sound  like  praise ; 
The  mist  before  me  dims  my  gilded  phrase  ; 
Our  speech  at  best  is  half  alive  and  cold, 
And  save  that  tenderer  moments  make  us  bold 
Our  whitening  lips  would  close,  their  truest  truth 
untold, 

We  who  behold  our  autumn  sun  bdow 

The  Scorpion's  sign,  against  the  Archer's  bow, 

Know  well  what  parting  means  of  friend  from 

friend ; 

After  the  snows  no  freshening  dews  descend, 
And  what  the  frost  has  marred,  the  sunshine  will 

not  mend. 

So  we  all  count  the  months,  the  weeks,  the  days, 
That  keep  thee  from  us  in  unwonted  ways, 
Grudging  to  alien  hearths  our  widowed  time  ; 
And  one  has  shaped  a  breath  in  artless  rhyme 
That  sighs,  "  We  track  thee  still  through  each  re 
motest  clime." 


CHRISTIAN  G.   EHRENBERG.        217 

What  wishes,  longings,  blessings,  prayers  shall 
be 

The -more  than  golden  freight  that  floats  with 
thee! 

And  know,  whatever  welcome  thoti  shalt  find,  — 

Thou  who  hast  won  the  hearts  of  half  man 
kind,  — 

The  proudest,  fondest  love  thou  leavest  still  be 
hind  ! 


TO  CHRISTIAN   GOTTFRIED  EHREN 
BERG. 

FOR  HIS  "JUBIL^UM"  AT  BERLIN,  NOVEMBER  5, 

1868. 

fiHOU  who  hast  taught    the   teachers  of 

mankind 
How  from    the   least  of    things  the 

mightiest  grow, 
What  marvel  jealous  Nature  made  thee  blind, 
Lest  man    should    learn   what   angels  long  to 

know  ? 
Thou  in  the  flinty  rock,  the  river's  flow, 

In  the  thick-moted  sunbeam's  sifted  light 
Hast  trained  thy  downward-pointed  tube  to  show 
Worlds  within  worlds  unveiled  to  mortal  sight, 
Even  as  the  patient  watchers  of  the  night,  — 
The  cyclope  gleaners  of  the  fruitful  skies,  — 


218        CHRISTIAN  G.   EHRENBERG. 

Show  the  wide  misty  way  where  heaven  is  white 
All  paved  with   suns  that  daze  our  wondering 
eyes. 

Far  o'er  the  stormy  deep  an  empire  lies, 

Beyond  the  storied  islands  of  the  blest, 
That  waits  to  see  the  lingering  day-star  rise ; 

The  forest-cinctured  Eden  of  the  West ; 
Whose  queen,  fair  Freedom,  twines  her  iron  crest 

With   leaves   from   every  wreath  that  mortals 

wear, 
But  loves  the  sober  garland  ever  best 

That  Science  lends  the  sage's  silvered  hair ;  — 
Science,  who  makes  life's  heritage  more  fair, 

Forging  for  every  lock  its  mastering  key, 
Filling  with  life  and  hope  the  stagnant  air, 

Pouring  the  light  of  Heaven  o'er  land  and  sea! 
From  her  unsceptred  realm  we  come  to  thee, 

Bearing  our  slender  tribute  in  our  hands ; 
Deem  it  not  worthless,  humble  though  it  be, 

Set  by  the  larger  gifts  of  older  lands  : 
The  smallest  fibres  weave  the  strongest  bands,  — 

In   narrowest    tubes  the   sovereign  nerves    are 

spun,  — 
A  little  cord  along  the  deep  sea-sands 

Makes  the  live  thought  of  severed  nations  one : 
Thy  fame  has  journeyed  westering  with  the  sun, 

Prairies  and  lone  sierras  know  thy  name 
And  the  long  day  of  service  nobly  done 

That  crowns  thy  darkened  evening  with  its  flame ! 


CHRISTIAN   G.  EHRENBERG.        219 

One  with  the  grateful  world,  we  own  thy  claim, — 

Nay,  rather  claim  our  right  to  join  the  throng 
Who  come   with  varied  tongues,  but  hearts  the 
same, 

To  hail  thy  festal  morn  with  smiles  and  song ; 
Ah,  happy  they  to  whom  the  joys  belong 

Of  peaceful  triumphs  that  can  never  die 
.dVom  History's  record,  — not  of  gilded  wrong, 

But  golden  truths  that  while  the  world  goes  by 
With  all  its  empty  pageant,  blazoned  high 

Around  the  Master's  name  forever  shine  ! 
So  shines  thy  name  illumined  in  the  sky,  — 

Such  joys,   such  triumphs,   such  remembrance 
thine ! 


MEMORIAL  VERSES. 


MEMORIAL  VERSES. 


FOR  THE  SERVICES  IN  MEMORY  OF 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

CITY   OF   BOSTON,   JUNE    1,    1865. 
CHORAL:  Luther's  "Judgment  Hymn." 

THOU  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath, 
The  ever-present  Giver, 

Unto  thy  mighty  Angel,  Death, 
All  flesh  thou  dost  deliver ; 


What  most  we  cherish  we  resign, 
For  life  and  death  alike  are  thine, 
Who  reignest  Lord  forever  ! 

Our  hearts  lie  buried  in  the  dust 
With  him  so  true  and  tender, 

The  patriot's  stay,  the  people's  trust, 
The  shield  of  the  offender; 

Yet  every  murmuring  voice  is  still, 

As,  bowing  to  thy  sovereign  will, 
Our  best-loved  we  surrender. 


224         COMMEMORATION  SERVICES. 

Dear  Lord,  with  pitying  eye  behold 
This  martyr  generation, 

Which  thou,  through  trials  manifold, 
Art  showing  thy  salvation  ! 

O  let  the  blood  by  murder  spilt 

Wash  out  thy  stricken  children's  guilt 
And  sanctify  our  nation ! 

Be  thou  thy  orphaned  Israel's  friend, 
Forsake  thy  people  never  ; 

In  One  our  broken  Many  blend, 
That  none  again  may  sever ! 

Hear  us,  O  Father,  while  we  raise 

With  trembling  lips  our  song  of  praise, 
And  bless  thy  name  forever ! 


FOE  THE  COMMEMORATION  SERVICES. 

CAMBRIDGE,   JULY    21,    1865. 


OUR  summers  coined  their  golden  light 

in  leaves, 
Four  wasteful  autumns  flung  them  to 

the  gale  ; 

(Four  winters  wore  the  shroud  the  tempest  weaves, 
The  fourth  wan  April  weeps  o'er  hill  and  vale ; 

And  still  the  war-clouds  scowl  on  sea  and  land, 
With  the  red  gleams  of  battle  staining  through, 


COMMEMORATION  SERVICES.      225 

When  lo !  as  parted  by  an  angel's  hand, 

They  open,  and  the  heavens  again  are  blue ! 

Which  is  the  dream,  the  present  or  the  past  ? 

The  night  of  anguish  or  the  joyous  morn  ? 
The  long,  long  years  with  horrors  overcast, 

Or  the  sweet  promise  of  the  day  new-born  ? 

Tell  us,  O  father,  as  thine  arms  enfold 
Thy  belted  first-born  in  their  fast  embrace, 

Murmuring  the   prayer  the  patriarch  breathed  of 

old,  — 
"  Now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  seen  thy  face  ! " 

Tell  us,  O  mother,  — nay,  thou  canst  not  speak, 
But  thy  fond  eyes  shall  answer,  brimmed  with 

j°y»  — 

Press  thy  mute  lips  against  the  sun-browned  cheek, 
Is  this  a  phantom,  —  thy  returning  boy  1 

Tell  us,  0  maiden  —    Ah,  what  canst  thou  tell 
That  Nature's  record  is  not  first  to  teach,  — 

The  open  volume  all  can  read  so  well, 

With  its  twin  rose-hued  pages  full  of  speech  ? 

And  ye  who  mourn  your  dead,  —  how  sternly  true 
The  crushing   hour   that   wrenched  their  lives 
away, 

Shadowed  with  sorrow's  midnight  veil  for  you, 
For  them  the  dawning  of  immortal  day  ! 
VOL.  n.         15 


226      COMMEMORATION  SERVICES. 

Dream-like  these  years  of  conflict,  not  a  dream  ! 

Death,  ruin,  ashes  tell  the  awful  tale, 
Bead  by  the  flaming  war-track's  lurid  gleam  : 

No  dream,  but  truth  that  turns  the  nations  pale ! 

For  on  the  pillar  raised  by  martyr  hands 
Burns  the  rekindled  beacon  of  the  right, 

Sowing  its  seeds  of  flre  o'er  all  the  lands,  — 
Thrones  look  a  century  older  in  its  light ! 

Eome  had  her  triumphs ;  round   the  conqueror's 
car 

The  ensigns  waved,  the  brazen  clarions  blew, 
And  o'er  the  reeking  spoils  of  bandit  war 

With  outspread  wings  the  cruel  eagles  flew ; 

Arms,  treasures,  captives,  kings  in  clanking  chains 
Urged  on  by   trampling   cohorts   bronzed  and 
scarred, 

And  wild-eyed  wonders  snared  on  Lybian  plains, 
Lion  and  ostrich  and  camelopard. 

Vain  all  that  praetors  clutched,  that  consuls  brought 
When  Rome's  returning  legions  crowned  their 

lord ; 
Less  than  the  least  brave  deed  these  hands  have 

wrought, 
We  clasp,  unclinching  from  the  bloody  sword. 

Theirs  was  the  mighty  work  that  seers  foretold ; 
They  know  not  half  their  glorious  toil  has  won, 


COMMEMORATION  SERVICES.       227 

For  this  is  Heaven's  same  battle,  —  joined  of  old 
When  Athens  fought  for  us  at  Marathon  ! 

—  Behold  a  vision  none  hath  understood  ! 

The  breaking  of  the  Apocalyptic  seal ; 
Twice   rings   the   summons.  —  Hail   and  fire  and 
blood  ! 

Then  the  third  angel  blows  his  trumpet-peal. 

Loud  wail  the  dwellers  on  the  myrtled  coasts, 
The  green  savannas  swell  the  maddened  cry, 

And  with  a  yell  from  all  the  demon  hosts 

Falls  the  great  star  called  Wormwood  from  the 
sky  ! 

Bitter  it  mingles  with  the  poisoned  flow 
Of  the  warm  rivers  winding  to  the  shore, 

Thousands  must  drink  the  waves  of  death  and  woe, 
But  the  star  Wormwood  stains  the  heavens  no 
more  ! 

Peace  smiles  at  last ;  the  Nation  calls  her  sons 
To  sheathe  the  sword ;  her  battle-flag  she  furls, 

Speaks  in  glad  thunders  from  unshotted  guns, 
No  terror  shrouded  in  the  smoke-wreath's  curls. 

O  ye  that  fought  for  Freedom,  living,  dead, 
One  sacred  host  of  God's  anointed  Queen, 

For  every  holy  drop  your  veins  have  shed 

We  breathe  a  welcome  to  our  bowers  of  green  ! 


228  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

Welcome,  ye  living  !  from  the  foe  man's  gripe 
Your  country's  banner  it  was  yours  to  wrest,  • — 

Ah,  many  a  forehead  shows  the  banner-stripe, 
And  stars,  once  crimson,  hallow  many  a  breast. 

And  ye,  pale  heroes,  who  from  glory's  bed 
Mark  when  your  old  battalions  form  in  line, 

Move  in  their  marching  ranks  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  shape  unheard  the  evening  countersign, 

Come  with  your  comrades,  the  returning  brave  ; 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  await  you  here  ; 
These  lent  the  life  their  martyr-brothers  gave,  — 

Livinir  and  dead  alike  forever  dear  ! 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 

"  OUR   FIRST    CITIZEN."  l 

|)INTER'S  cold  drift  lies  glistening  o'er 

his  breast ; 
For  him  no  spring  shall  bid  the  leaf 

unfold  : 

What  Love  could  speak,  by  sudden  grief  oppressed, 
What  swiftly  summoned  Memory  tell,  is  told. 

1  Read  at  the  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  So 
ciety,  January  30,  1865. 


EDWARD  EVERETT.  229 

Even  as  the  bells,  in  one  consenting-  chime, 
Filled  with  their  sweet  vibrations  all  the  air, 

So  joined  all  voices,  in  that  mournful  time, 
His  genius,  wisdom,  virtues,  to  declare. 

What  place  is  left  for  words  of  measured  praise, 
Till  calm-eyed  History,  with  her  iron  pen, 

Grooves  in  the  unchanging  rock  the  final  phrase 
That  shapes  his  image  in  the  souls  of  men  ? 

Yet  while  the  echoes  still  repeat  his  name, 

While  countless  tongues  his  full-orbed  life  re 
hearse, 

Love,  by  his  beating  pulses  taught,  will  claim 
The  breath  of  song,  the  tuneful  throb  of  verse, — 

Verse  that,  in  .ever-changing  ebb  and  flow, 
Moves,  like  the  laboring  heart,  with  rush  and 
rest, 

Or  swings  in  solemn  cadence,  sad  and  slow, 
Like  the  tired  heaving  of  a  grief-worn  breast. 

—  This  was  a  mind  so  rounded,  so  complete ; 

No  partial  gift  of  Nature  in  excess ; 
That,  like  a  single  stream  where  many  meet, 

Each  separate  talent  counted  something  less. 

A  little  hillock,  if  it  lonely  stand, 

Holds  o'er  the  fields  an  undisputed  reign ; 

While  the  broad  summit  of  the  table-land 
Seems  with  its  belt  of  clouds  a  level  plain. 


230  EDWARD    EVERETT. 

Servant  of  all  his  powers,  that  faithful  slave, 
Unsleeping  Memory,  strengthening  with  his  toils, 

To  every  ruder  task  his  shoulder  gave, 
And  loaded  every  day  with  golden  spoils. 

Order,  the  law  of  Heaven,  was  throned  supreme 
O'er  action,  instinct,  impulse,  feeling,  thought; 

True  as  the  dial's  shadow  to  the  beam, 

Each  hour  was  equal  to  the  charge  it  brought. 

Too  large  his  compass  for  the  nicer  skill 

That  weighs  the  world  of  science  grain  by  grain  ; 

All  realms  of  knowledge  owned  the  mastering  will 
That  claimed  the  franchise  of  its  whole  domain. 

Earth,  air,  sea,  sky,  the  elemental  fire, 

Art,  history,  song,  —  what  meanings  lie  in  each 

Found  in  his  cunning  hand  a  stringless  lyre, 

And  poured  their  mingling  music  through  his 
speech. 

Thence  flowed  those  anthems  of  our  festal  days, 

Whose  ravishing  division  held  apart 
The  lips  of  listening  throngs  in  sweet  amaze, 

Moved  in  all  breasts  the  selfsame  human  heart. 

Subdued  his  accents,  as  of  one  who  tries 

To   press   some   care,    some    haunting    sadness 
down ; 

His  smile  half  shadow  ;  and  to  stranger  eyes 
The  kingly  forehead  wore  an  iron  crown. 


EDWARD  EVERETT.  231 

He  was  not  armed  to  wrestle  with  the  storm, 
To  fight  for  homely  truth  with  vulgar  power  ; 

Grace    looked    from    every  feature,    shaped    his 

form,  — 
The  rose  of  Academe,  —  the  perfect  flower  ! 

Such  was  the  stately  scholar  whom  we  knew 
In  those  ill  days  of  soul-enslaving  calm, 

Before  the  blast  of  Northern  vengeance  blew 

Her   snow-wreathed  pine   against  the  Southern 
palm. 

Ah,  God  forgive  us  !  did  we  hold  too  cheap 

The  heart  we  might  have  known,  but  would  not 
see, 

And  look  to  find  the  nation's  friend  asleep 
Through  the  dread  hour  of  her  Gethsemane  ? 

That  wrong  is  past ;  we  gave  him  up  to  Death 
With  all  a  hero's  honors  round  his  name ; 

As  martyrs  coin  their  blood,  he  coined  his  breath, 
And  dimmed  the  scholar's  in  the  patriot's  fame. 

So  shall  we  blazon  on  the  shaft  we  raise,  — 

Telling  our  grief,  our  pride,  to  unborn  years,  — 

"  He  who  had  lived  the  mark  of  all  men's  praise 
Died  with  the  tribute  of  a  Nation's  tears." 


232  SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

TERCENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION. 

APRIL  23,  1864. 

?|HO   claims  our   Shakespeare  from  that 

realm  unknown, 
Beyond  the  storm-vexed  islands  of  the 

deep, 
Where  Genoa's  roving  mariner  was  blown? 

Her  twofold  Saint's-day  let  our  England  keep ; 
Shall  warring  aliens  share  her  holy  task  ?  " 
The  Old  World  echoes  ask. 

O  land  of  Shakespeare  !  ours  with  all  thy  past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the  sea  so  wide, 

Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet-blast 
Has  dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous  pride 

In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 
The  air  our  fathers  breathed  ! 

War-wasted,  haggard,  panting  from  the  strife, 
We  turn  to  other  days  and  far-off  lands, 

Live  o'er  in  dreams  the  Poet's  faded  life, 
Come  with  fresh  lilies  in  our  fevered  hands 

To  wreath  his  bust,  and  scatter  purple  flowers,  — 
Not  his  the  need,  but  ours ! 


SHAKESPEARE.  233 

We  call  those  poets  who  are  first  to  mark 

Through   earth's  dull  mist  the   coming  of  the 

dawn,  — 
Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale  spark, 

While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone ; 
For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain  rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 

The  greatest  for  its  greatness  is  half  known, 

Stretching  beyond  our  narrow  quadrant-lines,  — 

As  in  that  world  of  Nature  all  outgrown 
Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines, 

And  cast  from  Mariposa's  mountain- wall 
Nevada's  cataracts  full. 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  partly  ours, 
Throbbing  its  radiance  like  a  beating  heart ; 

In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 

The  instinct  of  the  blindworm  has  its  part ; 

So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  enfold. 

With  no  vain  praise  we  mock  the  stone-carved 

name 
Stamped  once  on  dust  that  moved  with  pulse 

and  breath, 
As  thinking  to  enlarge  that  amplest  fame 

Whose   undimmed    glories    gild  the    night    of 

death  : 

We  praise  not  star  or  sun ;  in  these  we  see 
Thee,  Father,  only  thee  ! 


234  SHAKESPEARE. 

Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power,  and  love  : 
We  read,  we  reverence  on  this  human  soul,  — 

Earth's  clearest  mirror  of  the  light  above,  — 
Plain  as  the  record  on  thy  prophet's  scroll, 

When  o'er  his  page  the  effluent  splendors  poured, 
Thine  own,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord !  " 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 
Thine  own  elected.     Statesman,  poet,  sage, 

For  him  thy  sovereign  pleasure  passed  them  by ; 
Sidney's  fair  youth,  and  Rnleigh's  ripened  age, 

Spenser's  chaste  soul,  and  his  imperial  mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 

Therefore  we  bid  our  hearts'  Te  Deum  rise, 
Nor  fear  to  make  thy  worship  less  divine, 

And  hear  the  shouted  choral  shake  the  skies, 
Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wisdom  thine ; 

For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name  adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore  ! 

In  this  dread  hour  of  Nature's  utmost  need, 

Thanks  for  these  unstained  drops  of  freshening 

dew  ! 
O,  while  our  martyrs  fall,  our  heroes  bleed, 

Keep  us  to  every  sweet  remembrance  true, 
Till  from  this  blood-red  sunset  springs  new-born 
Our  Nation's  second  morn  ! 


JOHN  AND  ROBERT    WARE.          235 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  AND  ROBERT 
WARE. 

READ    AT    THE    ANNUAL    MEETING    OF    THE    MASSA 
CHUSETTS  MEDICAL   SOCIETY,  MAY  25,  18G4. 

O  mystic  charm,  no  mortal  art, 

Can  bid  our  loved  companions  stay ; 
The  bands  that  clasp  them  to  our  heart 
Snap  in  death's  frost  and  fall  apart ; 
Like  shadows  fading  with  the  day, 
They  pass  away. 

The  young  arc  stricken  in  their  pride, 

The  old,  long  tottering,  faint  and  fall ; 
Master  and  scholar,  side  by  side, 
Through  the  dark  portals  silent  glide, 
That  open  in  life's  mouldering  wall 
And  close  on  all. 

Our  friend's,  our  teacher's  task  was  done, 
When  Mercy  called  him  from  on  high  ; 
A  little  cloud  had  dimmed  the  sun, 
The  saddening  hours  had  just  begun, 
And  darker  days  were  drawing  nigh  : 
'T  was  time  to  die. 

A  whiter  soul,  a  fairer  mind, 

A  life  with  purer  course  and  aim, 


236    JOHN  AND  ROBERT  WARE. 

A  gentler  eye,  a  voice  more  kind, 
We  may  not  look  on  earth  to  find. 
The  love  that  lingers  o'er  his  name 
Is  more  than  fame. 

These  blood-red  summers  ripen  fast ; 

The  sons  are  older  than  the  sires  ; 
Ere  yet  the  tree  to  earth  is  cast, 
The  sapling  falls  before  the  blast ; 

Life's  ashes  keep  their  covered  fires,  — 
Its  flame  expires. 

Struck  by  the  noiseless,  viewless  foe, 

Whose  deadlier  breath  than  shot  or  shell 
Has  laid  the  best  and  bravest  low, 
His  boy,  all  bright  in  morning's  glow, 
That  high-souled  youth  he  loved  so  well, 
Untimely  fell. 

Yet  still  he  wore  his  placid  smile, 

And,  trustful  in  the  cheering  creed 
That  strives  all  sorrow  to  beguile, 
Walked  calmly  on  his  way  awhile  : 
Ah,  breast  that  leans  on  breaking  reed 
Must  ever  bleed  ! 

So  they  both  left  us,  sire  and  son, 

With  opening  leaf,  with  laden  bough  : 
The  youth  whose  race  was  just  begun, 
The  wearied  man  whose  course  was  run, 
Its  record  written  on  his  brow, 
Are  brothers  now. 


HUMBOLDTS  BIRTHDAY.  237 

Brothers  !  —  The  music  of  the  sound 
Breathes  softly  through  my  closing  strain  ; 

The  floor  we  tread  is  holy  ground, 

Those  gentle  spirits  hovering  round, 
While  our  fair  circle  joins  again 
Its  broken  chain. 

1864. 


HUMBOLDT'S  BIRTHDAY. 

CENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION,  SEPTEMBER    14,  1869. 
BONAPARTE,    AUGUST    15,    1769.  —  HUMBOLDT,    SEPTEMBER    14, 

1769. 

RE  yet  the  warning  chimes  of  midnight 

sound, 

Set  back  the  flaming  index  of  the  year, 
Track  the  swift-shifting  seasons  in  their 

round 
Through  fivescore  circles  of  the  swinging  sphere. 

Lo,  in  yon  islet  of  the  midland  sea 

That  cleaves   the    storm-cloud  with   its  snowy 

crest, 
The  embryo-heir  of  empires  yet  to  be, 

A  month-old  babe  upon  his  mother's  breast. 

Those  little  hands  that  soon  shall  grow  so  strong 
In  their  rude  grasp  great  thrones  shall  rock  and 
fall, 


238  HUMBOLDTS  BIRTHDAY. 

Press  her  soft  bosom,  while  a  nursery  song 
Holds  the  world's  master  in  its  slender  thrall. 


Look !  a  new  crescent  bends  its  silver  bow  ; 

A  new-lit  star  has  fired  the  eastern  sky  ; 
Hark!  by  the  river  where  the  lindens  blow 

A  waiting  household  hears  an  infant's  cry. 

This,  too,  a  conqueror !  His  the  vast  domain, 
Wider  than  widest  sceptre-shadowed  lands  ; 

Earth,  and  the  weltering  kingdom  of  the  main 
Laid  their  broad  charters  in  his  royal  hands. 

His  was  no  taper  lit  in  cloistered  cage, 
Its  glimmer  borrowed  from  the  grove  or  porch ; 

He  read  the  record  of  the  planet's  page 
By  Etna's  glare  and  Cotopaxi's  torch. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  pathless  woods ; 

On  the  salt  steppes  he  saw  the  starlight  shine ; 
He  scaled  the  mountain's  windy  solitudes, 

And  trod  the  galleries  of  the  breathless  mine. 

For  him  no  fingering  of  the  love-strung  lyre, 

No  problem  vague,  by  torturing  schoolmen  vexed ; 

He  fed  no  broken  altar's  dying  fire, 
Nor  skulked  and  scowled  behind  a  Rabbi's  text. 

For  God's  new  truth  he  claimed  the  kingly  robe 
That  priestly  shoulders  counted  all  their  own, 

Unrolled  the  gospel  of  the  storied  globe 
And  led  young  Science  to  her  empty  throne. 


HUMBOLDTB  BIRTHDAY.  239 

While  the  round  planet  on  its  axle  spins 

One  fruitful  year  shall  boast  its  double  birth, 

And  show  the  cradles  of  its  mighty  twins, 
Master  and  Servant  of  the  sous  of  earth. 

Which  wears  the  garland  that  shall  never  fade, 
Sweet  with  fair  memories  that  can  never  die  ? 

Ask  not  the  marbles  where  their  bones  are  laid, 
But  bow  thine  ear  to  hear  thy  brothers'  cry  :  — 

"  Tear  up  the  despot's  laurels  by  the  root, 

Like  mandrakes,  shrieking  as  they  quit  the  soil ! 

Feed  us  no  more  upon  the  blood-red  fruit 

That  sucks  its  crimson  from  the  heart  of  Toil ! 

"  We  claim  the  food  that  fixed  our  mortal  fate,  — 
Bend  to  our  reach  the  long-forbidden  tree ! 

The  angel  frowned  at  Eden's  eastern  gate,  — 
Its  western  portal  is  forever  free  ! 

"  Bring  the  white  blossoms  of  the  waning  year, 
Heap  with  full  hands  the  peaceful  conqueror's 
shrine 

Whose  bloodless  triumphs  cost  no  sufferer's  tear  ! 
Hero  of  knowledge,  be  our  tribute  thine  !  " 


240 


POEM. 


POEM 


AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  HALLECK  MONU 
MENT,  JULY  8,  1869. 

AY  not  the  Poet  dies  ! 
'  Though  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  death  ! 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from  its  roll  ; 
Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 
Who,  in  the  enchanted  air 

Sweet  with  the  lingering  strains  that  Echo  stole, 
Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his  soul  ! 

We  o'er  his  turf  may  raise 

Our  notes  of  feeble  praise, 
And  carve  with  pious  care  for  after  eyes 

The  stone  with  "  Here  he  lies  "  ; 
He  for  himself  has  built  a  nobler  shrine, 

Whose  walls  of  stately  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tides  of  time, 

While  o'er  their  gates  the  gleaming  tablets  shine 
That  wear  his  name  inwrought  with  many  a  golden 
line  ! 

Call  not  our  Poet  dead, 
Though  on  his  turf  we  tread  ! 


POEM.  241 

Green  is  the  wreath  their  brows  so  long  have 

worn,  — 

The  minstrels  of  the  morn, 

Who,  while  the  Orient  burned  with  new-born  flame, 
Caught  that  celestial  fire 
And  struck  a  Nation's  lyre  ! 
These  taught  the  western  winds  the  poet's  name ; 
Theirs  the  first  opening  buds,  the  maiden  flowers  of 
fame  ! 

Count  not  our  Poet  dead"! 

The  stars  shall  watch  his  bed, 
The  rose  of  June  its  fragrant  life  renew 

His  blushing  mound  to  strew, 
And  all  the  tuneful  throats  of  summer  swell 

With  trills  as  crystal-clear 

As  when  he  wooed  the  ear 

Of  the  young  muse  that  haunts  each  wooded  dell, 
With  songs  of  that  "  rough  land  "  he  loved  so  long 
and  well ! 

He  sleeps  ;  he  cannot  die  ! 

As  evening's  long-drawn  sigh, 
Lifting  the  rose-leaves  on  his  peaceful  mound, 

Spreads  all  their  sweets  around, 
So,  laden  with  his  song,  the  breezes  blow 

From  where  the  rustling  sedge 

Frets  our  rude  ocean's  edge 
To  the  smooth  sea  beyond  the  peaks  of  snow. 
His  soul  the  air  enshrines  and  leaves  but  dust  be 
low! 

VOL.  II.  16 


242  HYMN. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  AT  THE  LAYING  OF  THE 
CORNER-STONE  OF  HARVARD  MEMORIAL  HALL, 
CAMBRIDGE,  OCTOBER  6,  1870. 

with  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  are 

breaking 
Come  we  as  mourners  to  weep  for  our 

dead ; 

Grief  in  our  breasts  has  grown  weary  of  aching, 
Green  is  the  turf  where  our  tears  we  have  shed. 

While  o'er  their  marbles  the  mosses  are  creeping, 
Stealing  each  name  and  its  legend  away, 

Give  their  proud  story  to  Memory's  keeping, 
Shrined  in  the  temple  we  hallow  to-day. 

Hushed  are  their  battle-fields,  ended  their  marches, 
Deaf  are  their  ears  to  the  drum-beat  of  morn,  — 

Rise  from  the  sod,  ye  fair  columns  and  arches  ! 
Tell  their  bright  deeds  to  the  ages  unborn  ! 

Emblem  and  legend  may  fade  from  the  portal, 
Keystone  may  crumble  and  pillar  may  fall ; 

They  were  the  builders  whose  work  is  immortal, 
Crowned  with  the  dome  that  is  over  us  all ! 


HYMN.  243 


HYMN 

FOR    THE     DEDICATION     OF     MEMORIAL    HALL    AT 
CAMBRIDGE,    JUNE    23,    1874. 


HERE,  girt  around  by  savage  foes, 
Our  nurturing  Mother's  shelter  rose, 
Behold,  the  lofty  temple  stands, 
Reared  by  her  children's  grateful  hands  ! 


Firm  are  the  pillars  that  defy 
The  volleyed  thunders  of  the  sky ; 
Sweet  are  the  summer  wreaths  that  twine 
With  bud  and  flower  our  martyrs'  shrine. 

The  hues  their  tattered  colors  bore 
Fall  mingling  on  the  sunlit  floor 
Till  evening  spreads  her  spangled  pall, 
And  wraps  in  shade  the  storied  hall. 

Firm  were  their  hearts  in  danger's  hour, 
Sweet  was  their  manhood's  morning  flower, 
Their  hopes  with  rainbow  hues  were  bright, 
How  swiftly  winged  the  sudden  night ! 

O  Mother !  on  thy  marble  page 
Thy  children  read,  from  age  to  age, 
The  mighty  word  that  upward  leads 
Through  noble  thought  to  nobler  deeds. 


244  HYMN. 

TRUTH,  heaven-born  TRUTH,  their  fearless  guide, 
Thy  saints  have  lived,  thy  heroes  died  ; 
Our  love  has  reared  their  earthly  shrine, 
Their  glory  be  forever  thine ! 


HYMN 

AT     THE     FUNERAL    SERVICES     OF    CHARLES    SUM- 
NER,   APRIL   29,    1874. 

SUNG  BY  MALE  VOICES  TO  A  NATIONAL  AIR  OF  HOLLAND. 


more,  ye  sacred  towers, 
Your  solemn  dirges  sound  ; 
Strew,  loving  hands,  the  April  flowers, 

Once  more  to  deck  his  mound. 
A  nation  mourns  its  dead, 
Its  sorrowing  voices  one, 
As  Israel's  monarch  bowed  his  head 
And  cried,  u  My  sou  !  My  son  !  " 

Why  mourn  for  him  ?  —  For  him 

The  welcome  angel  came 
Ere  yet  his  eye  with  age  was  dim 

Or  bent  his  stately  frame; 

His  weapon  still  was  bright, 

His  shield  was  lifted  high 
To  slay  the  wrong,  to  save  the  right,  — 

What  happier  hour  to  die  ? 


HYMN.  245 

Thou  orderest  all  things  well ; 
Thy  servant's  work  was  done ; 
He  lived  to  hear  Oppression's  knell, 
The  shouts  for  Freedom  won. 
Hark !  from  the  opening  skies 
The  anthem's  echoing  swell,  — 
"  O  mourning  Land,  lift  up  thine  eyes ! 
God  reigneth.    All  is  well !  " 


RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR. 


RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR. 


ADDRESS. 

FOR   THE    OPENING    OF    THE    FIFTH    AVENUE    THE 
ATRE,  NEW  YORK,  DECEMBER  3,  1873. 

LNG    out    our  banners  on  the  stately 

tower ! 
It   dawns  at  last,  —  the  long-expected 

hour ! 

The  steep  is  climbed,  the  star-lit  summit  won, 
The  builder's  task,  the  artist's  labor,  done  ; 
Before  the  finished  work  the  herald  stands, 
And  asks  the  verdict  of  your  lips  and  hands  ! 

Shall  rosy  daybreak  make  us  all  forget 
The  golden  sun  that  yester-evening  set  ? 
Fair  was  the  fabric  doomed  to  pass  away 
Ere  the  last  headaches  born  of  New  Year's  Day  ; 
With  blasting  breath  the  fierce  destroyer  came 
And  wrapped  the  victim  in  his  robes  of  flame  ; 
The  pictured  sky  with  redder  morning  blushed, 
With    scorching     streams    the    naiad's    fountain 
gushed, 


250  ADDRESS. 

With  kindling  mountains  glowed  the  funeral  pyre, 
Forests  ablaze  and  rivers  all  on  fire,  — 
The  scenes  dissolved,  the  shrivelling  curtain  fell,  — 
Art  spread  her  wings  and  sighed  a  long  farewell ! 

Mourn  o'er  the  Player's  melancholy  plight,  — 
Falstaff  in  tears,  Othello  deadly  white,  — 
Poor  Romeo  reckoning  what  his  doublet  cost, 
And  Juliet  whimpering  for  her  dresses  lost,  — 
Their    wardrobes    burned,    their   salaries  all   un 
drawn, 
Their  cues  cut  short,  their  occupation  gone  ! 

"Lie  there   in   dust,"   the   red-winged    demon 

cried, 

"  Wreck  of  the  lordly  city's  hope  and  pride  ! " 
Silent  they  stand,  and  stare  with  vacant  gaze, 
While  o'er  the  embers  leaps  the  fitful  blaze ; 
When,  lo  !  a  hand,  before  the  startled  train, 
Writes  in  the  ashes,  "  It  shall  rise  again,  — 
Rise  and  confront  its  elemental  foes !  "  — 
The  word  was  spoken,  and  the  walls  arose, 
And  ere  the  seasons  round  their  brief  career 
The  new-born  temple  waits  the  unborn  year. 

Ours  was  the  toil  of  many  a  weary  day 
Your  smiles,  your  plaudits,  only  can  repay  ; 
We  are  the  monarchs  of  the  painted  scenes, 
You,  you  alone  the  real  Kings  and  Queens  ! 
Lords  of  the  little  kingdom  where  we  meet, 
We  lay  our  gilded  sceptres  at  your  feet, 


ADDRESS.  251 

Place  in  your  grasp  our  portal's  silvered  keys 
With    one   brief   utterance,  —  We   have    tried  to 

please. 

Tell  us,  ye  Sovereigns  of  the  new  domain, 
Are  you  content  —  or  have  we  toiled  in  vain  ? 

With  no  irreverent  glances  look  around 
The  realm  you  rule,  for  this  is  haunted  ground  ! 
Here  stalks  the  Sorcerer,  here  the  Fairy  trips, 
Here  limps  the  Witch  with  malice-working  lips, 
The  Graces  here  their  snowy  arms  entwine, 
Here  dwell  the  fairest  sisters  of  the  Nine,  — 
She  who,  with  jocund  voice  and  twinkling  eye, 
Laughs  at  the  brood  of  follies  as  they  fly  ; 
She  of  the  dagger  and  the  deadly  bowl, 
Whose  charming  horrors  thrill  the  trembling  soul ; 
She  who,  a  truant  from  celestial  spheres, 
In  mortal  semblance  now  and  then  appears, 
Stealing  the  fairest  earthly  shape  she  can,  — 
Sontag  or  Nilsson,  Lind  or  Malibran ; 
With  these  the  spangled  houri  of  the  dance,  — 
What  shaft  so  dangerous  as  her  melting  glance, 
As  poised  in  air  she  spurns  the  earth  below, 
And  points  aloft  her  heavenly-minded  to  • ! 

What  were  our  life,  with  all  its  rents  and  seams, 
Stripped  of  its  purple  robes,  our  waking  dreams  ? 
The  poet's  song,  the  bright  romancer's  page, 
The  tinselled  shows  that  cheat  us  on  the  stage 
Lead  all  our  fancies  captive  at  their  will ; 
Three  years  or  threescore,  we  are  children  still. 


252  ADDRESS. 

The  little  listener  on  his  father's  knee, 
With  wandering  Sindhad  ploughs  the  stormy  sea, 
With  Gotham's  sages  hears  the  billows  roll 
(Illustrious  trio  of  the  venturous  bowl, 
Too  early  shipwrecked,  for  they  died  too  soon 
To  see  their  offspring  launch  the  great  balloon) ; 
Tracks  the  dark  brigand  to  his  mountain  lair, 
Slays  the  griin  giant,  saves  the  lady  fair, 
Fights  all  his  country's  battles  o'er  again 
From  Bunker's  blazing  height  to  Lundy's  Lane  ; 
Floats  with  the  mighty  Captains  as  they  sailed 
Before  whose  flag  the  flaming  red-cross  paled, 
And  claims  the  oft-told  story  of  the  scars 
Scarce  yet  grown  white,  that  saved  the  Stripes  and 
Stars! 

Children  of  later  growth,  we  love  the  PLAY, 
We  love  its  heroes,  be  they  grave  or  gay, 
From  squeaking,  peppery,  devil-defying  Punch 
To  roaring  Richard  with  his  camel-hunch  ; 
Adore  its  heroines,  those  immortal  dames, 
Time's  only  rivals,  whom  he  never  tames, 
Whose  youth,   unchanging,    lives    while    thrones 

decay 

(Age  spares  the  Pyramids —  and  Dejazet) ; 
The  saucy-aproned,  razor-tongued  soubrette, 
The  blond-haired  beauty  with  the  eyes  of  jet, 
The  gorgeous  Beings  whom  the  viewless  wires 
Lift  to  the  skies  in  strontian-crimsoned  fires, 
And  all  the  wealth  of  splendor  that  awaits 
The  throng  that  enters  those  Elysian  gates. 


ADDRESS.  253 

See  where  the  hurrying  crowd  impatient  pours, 
With  noise  of  trampling  feet  and  flapping  doors, 
Streams    to  the  numbered   seat   each    pasteboard 

fits 

And  smooths  its  caudal  plumage  as  it  sits ; 
Waits  while  the  slow  musicians  saunter  in, 
Till  the  bald  leader  taps  his  violin  ; 
Till  the  old  overture  we  know  so  well, 
Zampa  or  Magic  Flute  or  William  Tell, 
Has   done   its   worst  —  then   hark  !    the   tinkling 

bell! 

The  crash  is  o'er  —  the  crinkling  curtain  furled, 
And  lo  !  the  glories  of  that  brighter  world  ! 

Behold  the  offspring  of  the  Thespian  cart, 
This  full-grown  temple  of  the  magic  art, 
Where  all  the  conjurors  of  illusion  meet, 
And  please  us  all  the  more,  the  more  they  cheat. 
These  are  the  wizards  and  the  witches  too 
Who  win  their  honest  bread  by  cheating  you 
With  cheeks  that  drown  in  artificial  tears 
And  lying  skull-caps  white  with  seventy  years  ; 
Sweet-tempered     matrons     changed     to    scolding 

Kates, 
Maids  mild  as  moonbeams  crazed  with  murderous 

hates, 

Kind,  simple  souls  that  stab  and  slash  and  slay 
And  stick  at  nothing,  if  it  's  in  the  play ! 

Would  all  the  world  told  half  as  harmless  lies  ! 
Would  all  its  real  fools  were  half  as  wise 


254  ADDRESS. 

As  he  who  blinks  through  dull  Dundreary's  eyes  ! 
Would  all  the  unhanged  bandits  of  the  age 
Were  like  the  peaceful  ruffians  of  the  stage  ! 
Would  all  the  cankers  wasting  town  and  state, 
The  mob  of  rascals,  little  thieves  and  great, 
Dealers  in  watered  milk  and  watered  stocks, 
Who  lead  us  lambs  to  pasture  on  the  rocks,  — 
Shepherds,  —  Jack   Sheppards,  —  of  their   city 

flocks,  — 

The  rings  of  rogues  that  rob  the  luckless  town, 
Those  evil  angels  creeping  up  and  down 
The  Jacob's  ladder  of  the  treasury  stairs,  — 
Not  stage,  but  real  Turpins  and  Macaires,  — 
Could    doff,    like    us,   their    knavery   with    their 

clothes, 
And  find  it  easy  as  forgetting  oaths  ! 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  our  virgin  dome, 
The  Muses'  shrine,  the  Drama's  new-found  home  ! 
Here  shall  the  Statesman  rest  his  weary  brain, 
The  worn-out  Artist  find  his  wits  again  ; 
Here  Trade  forget  his  ledger  and  his  cares, 
And  sweet  communion  mingle  Bulls  and  Bears ; 
Here  shall  the  youthful  Lover,  nestling  near 
The  shrinking  maiden,  her  he  holds  most  dear, 
Gaze  on  the  mimic  moonlight  as  it  falls 
On  painted  groves,  on  sliding  canvas  walls, 
And  sigh,  "  My  angel !     What  a  life  of  bliss 
We  two  could  live  in  such  a  world  as  this  !  " 
Here  shall  the  tumid  pedants  of  the  schools, 
The  gilded  boors,  the  labor-scorning  fools, 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.  255 

The  grass-green  rustic  and  the  smoke-dried  cit, 
Feel  each  in  turn  the  stinging  lash  of  wit, 
And  as  it  tingles  on  some  tender  part 
Each  find  a  balsam  in  his  neighbor's  smart ; 
So  every  folly  prove  a  fresh  delight 
As  in  the  pictures  of  our  play  to-night. 

Farewell  !     The  Players   wait  the  Prompter's 

call ; 
Friends,  lovers,  listeners  !     Welcome  one  and  all ! 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D. 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  PRESCRIPTION  TAKEN  BY  THE 
MASSACHUSETTS  MEDICAL  SOCIETY,  AT  THEIR 
MEETING  HELD  MAY  25,  1870. 

CANTO  FIRST. 

j|LD  Rip  Van  Winkle   had  a  grandson 

Rip, 

Of  the  paternal  block  a  genuine  chip  ; 
A  lazy,  sleepy,  curious  kind  of  chap  ; 
lie,  like  his  grandsire,  took  a  mighty  nap, 
Whereof  the  story  I  propose  to  tell 
In  two  brief  cantos,  if  you  listen  well. 

The  times  were  hard  when  Rip  to  manhood  grew  ; 
They  always  will  be  when  there  's  work  to  do  ; 


256          RIP    VAN    WINKLE,   M.  D. 

He  tried  at  farming,  —  found  it  rather  slow,  — 
And  then  at  teaching,  —  what  he  did  n't  know  ; 
Then  took  to  banging  round  the  tavern  bars, 
To  frequent  toddies  and  long-nine  cigars, 
Till  Dame  Van  Winkle,  out  of  patience,  vexed 
With  preaching  homilies,  having  for  their  text 
A  mop,  a  broomstick,  —  aught  that  might  avail 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale, 
Exclaimed,  "  I  have  it !    Now  then,  Mr.  V. ! 
He  's  good  for  something,  —  make  him  an  M.  D. ! " 

The  die  was  cast  ;  the  youngster  was  content ;      * 

They  packed  his  shirts  and  stockings,  and  he  went. 

How  hard  he  studied  it  were  vain  to  tell ; 

He  drowsed  through  Wistar,  nodded  over  Bell, 

Slept  sound  with  Cooper,  snored  aloud  on  Good  ; 

Heard  heaps  of  lectures,  —  doubtless  understood,  — • 

A  constant  listener,  for  he  did  not  fail 

To  carve  his  name  on  every  bench  and  rail. 

Months  grew  to  years  ;  at  last  he  counted  three, 

And  Rip  Van  Winkle  found  himself  M.  D. 

Illustrious  title  !  in  a  gilded  frame 

He  set  the  sheepskin  with  his  Latin  name, 

RIPUM  VAN  WINKLUM,  QUEM  we,  —  SCIMUS, — 

know 

IDONEUM  ESSE,  —  to  do  so  and  so  ; 
He  hired  an  office ;  soon  its  walls  displayed 
His  new  diploma  and  his  stock  in  trade, 
A  mighty  arsenal  to  subdue  disease, 
Of  various  names,  whereof  I  mention  these  : 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,    M.    D.          257 

Lancets  and  bougies,  great  and  little  squirt, 
Rhubarb  and  Senna,  Snakeroot,  Thoroughwort, 
Ant.  Tart.,  Vin.  Colch.,  Til.  Cochiae,   and  Black 

Drop, 

Tinctures  of  Opium,  Gentian,  Henbane,  Hop, 
Pulv.  Ipecacuanhas,  which  for  lack 
Of  breath  to  utter  men  call  Ipecac, 
Camphor  and  Kino,  Turpentine,  Tolu, 
Cubebs,  "  Copeevy,"  Vitriol  —  white  and  blue, 
Fennel  and  Flaxseed,  Slippery  Elm  and  Squill, 
Antl  roots  of  Sassafras,  and  "  Sassaf 'rill," 
Brandy,  —  for     colics,  —    Pinkroot,    death     on 

worms,  — 

Valerian,  calmer  of  hysteric  squirms, 
Musk,  Assafoetida,  the  resinous  gum 
Named  from  its  odor,  —  well,  it  does  smell  some,  — 
Jalap,  that  works  not  wisely,  but  too  well, 
Ten  pounds  of  Bark  and  six  of  Calomel. 

For  outward  griefs  he  had  an  ample  store, 
Some  twenty  jars  and  gallipots,  or  more ; 
Ceratum  simplex,  —  housewives  oft  compile 
The  same  at  home,  and  call  it  "  wax  and  ile  " ; 
Cfnguentum  Resinosum,  —  change  its  name, 
The  "  drawing  salve  "  of  many  an  ancient  dame  ; 
Arf/enli  Nitras,  also  Spanish  flies, 
Whose  virtue  makes  the  water-bladders  rise,  — 
( Some  say  that  spread  upon  a  toper's  skin 
They  draw  no  water,  only  rum  or  gin)  — 
Leeches,  sweet  vermin  !  don't  they  charm  the  sick  ? 
And  sticking-plaster,  —  how  it  hates  to  stick  ! 

VOL.   II.  17 


258  RIP    VAN   WINKLE,    M.   D. 

Emplastrum  Ferri,  —  ditto  Picis,  Pitch ; 

Washes    and    Powders,    Brimstone  for   the  

which, 

Scabies  or  Psora,  is  thy  chosen  name 
Since  Hahnemann's  goose-quill  scratched  thee  into 

fame, 

Proved  thee  the  source  of  every  nameless  ill, 
Whose  sole  specific  is  a  moonshine  pill, 
Till  saucy  Science,  with  a  quiet  grin  , 
Held  up  the  Acarus,  crawling  on  a  pin  ? 

—  Mountains  have  labored  and  have  brought  forth 

mice  : 
The  Dutchman's  theory  hatched  a    brood   of, — 

twice 

I've  wellnigh  said  them  —  words  unfitting  quite 
For  these  fair  precincts  and  for  ears  polite. 

The  surest  foot  may  chance  at  last  to  slip, 
And  so  at  length  it  proved  with  Doctor  Rip. 
One  full-sized  bottle  stood  upon  the  shelf 
Which  held  the  medicine  that  he  took  himself ; 
Whate'er  the  reason,  it  must  be  confessed 
He  filled  that  bottle  oftener  than  the  rest ; 
What  drug  it  held  I  don't  presume  to  know  — 
The  gilded  label  said  "  Elixir  Pro." 

One  day  the  Doctor  found  the  bottle  full, 
And,  being  thirsty,  took  a  vigorous  j»u!l, 
Put  back  the  u  Elixir"  where  't  was  always  found, 
And  had  old  Dobbin  saddled  and  brought  round. 

—  You  know  those  old-time  rhubarb-colored  nags 
That  carried  Doctors  and  their  saddle-bags  ; 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE,   M.   D.          259 

Sagacious  beasts !  they  stopped  at  every  place 
Where   blinds  were  shut  —  knew  every   patient's 

case 

Looked  up  and  thought,  —  the  baby  's  in  a  fit,  — 
That   won't   last   long,  —  he  '11   soon   be   through 

with  it  ; 

But  shook  their  heads  before  the  knockered  door 
Where  some  old  lady  told  the  story  o'er 
Whose  endless  stream  of  tribulation  flows 
For  gastric  griefs  and  peristaltic  woes. 

What  jack-o'-lantern  led  him  from  his  way, 
And  where  it  led  him,  it  were  hard  to  say  ; 
Enough  that  wandering  many  a  weary  mile 
Through  paths  the  mountain  sheep  trod  .single  file, 
O'ercome  by  feelings  such  as  patients  know 
Who  dose  too  freely  with  "  Elixir  Pro," 
He  tumbl  — dismounted,  slightly  in  a  heap, 
And  lay,  promiscuous,  lapped  in  balmy  sleep. 

Night  followed  night,  and  day  succeeded  day, 

But  snoring  still  the  slumbering  Doctor  lay. 

Poor  Dobbin,  starving,  thought  upon  his  stall, 

And  straggled  homeward,  saddle-bags  and  all. 

The  village  people  hunted  all  around, 

But  Rip  was  missing,  —  never  could  be  found. 

"  Drownded/'  they  guessed  ;  —  for  more  than  half 

a  vear 

The  pouts  and  eels  did  taste  uncommon  queer ; 
Some  said  of  apple-brandy,  —  other  some 
Found  a  strong  flavor  of  New  England  rum. 


260  RIP    VAN    W1XKLK,   M.   D. 

—  Why  can't  a  fellow  hear  the  line  things  said 
About  a  fellow  when  a  fellow  's  dead  ? 

The  best  of  doctors,  —  so  the  press  declared,  — 
A  public  blessing  while  his  life  was  spared, 
True  to  his  country,  bounteous  to  the  poor, 
In  all  things  temperate,  sober,  just,  and  pure  ; 
The  best  of  husbands  !  echoed  Mrs.  Van, 
And  set  her  cap  to  catch  another  in  an. 

—  So  ends  this  Canto  —  if  it 's  quantum  sujf., 
We '11  just  stop  here  and  say  we  've  had  enough, 
And  leave  poor  Hip  to  sleep  for  thirty  years ; 

I  grind  the  organ  —  if  you  lend  your  ears 

To  hear  my  second  Canto,  after  that 

We  '11  send  around  the  monkey  with  the  hat. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

So  thirty  years  had  past,  —  but  not  a  word 
In  all  that  time  of  Rip  was  ever  heard  ; 
The  world  wagged  on,  —  it  never  does  go  back,  — 
The  widow  Van  was  now  rhe  widow  Mac,  — 
France  was  an  Empire,  —  Andrew  J.  was  dead, 
And  Abraham  L.  was  reigning  in  his  stead. 
Four  murderous  years  had  passed  in  savage  strife, 
Yet  still  the  rebel  huld  his  bloody  knife. 

—  At  last  one  morning,  —  who  forgets  the  day 
When  the  black  cloud  of  war  dissolved  away  ? 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE,   M.   D.          261 

The  joyous  tidings  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Rebellion  done  for !     Grant  has  captured  Lee  ! 
Up  every  flagstaff  sprang-  the  Stars  and  Stripes, — 
Out  rushed  the  Extras  wild  with  mammoth  types,  — 
Down    went   the   laborer's    hod,   the    school-boy's 

book,    - 

*•  Hooraw  !  "  he  cried,  —  "  the  rebel  army  's  took ! " 
Ah  !  what  a  time  !  the  folks  all  mad  with  joy  : 
Each  fond,  pale  mother  thinking  of  her  boy  ; 
Old  gray-lrured  fathers  meeting,  —  Have,  —  you,  — 

heard  ? 

And  then  a  choke,  —  and  not  another  word  ; 
Sisters  all  smiling,  —  maidens,  not  less  dear, 
In  trembling  poise  between  a  "smile  and  tear ; 
Poor  Bridget  thinking  how  she  '11  stuff  the  plums 
In  that  big  cake  for  Johnny  when  he  comes  ; 
Cripples  afoot ;  rheumatics  on  the  jump, 
Old  girls  so  loving  they  could  hug  the  pump  ; 
Guns  going  bang  !  from  every  fort  and  ship  ; 
They  banged  so  loud  at  last  they  wakened  Hip. 

I  spare  the  picture,  how  a  man  appears 
Who  's  been  asleep  a  score  or  two  of  years  ; 
You  all  have  seen  it  to  perfection  done 
By  Joe  Van  Wink  —  I  mean  Rip  Jefferson. 
Well,  so  it  was  ;  old  Rip  at  last  came  back, 
Claimed  his  old  wife  —  the  present  widow  Mac,  — 
Had  his  old  sign  regilded,  and  began 
To  practise  physic  on  the  same  old  plan. 

Some  weeks  went  by —  it  was  not  long  to  wait  — 
And  "  please  to  call "  grew  frequent  on  the  slate. 


262          RIP    VAN    WINKLE,   M.    D. 

He  had,  in  fact,  an  ancient,  mildewed  air, 
A  long  gray  beard,  a  plenteous  lack  of  hair,  — 
The  musty  look  that  always  recommends 
Your  good  old  Doctor  to  his  ailing  friends. 
—  Talk  of  your  science  !  after  all  is  said 
There  's  nothing  like  a  bare  and  shiny  head ; 
Age  lends  the  graces  that  are  sure  to  please  ; 
Folks  want  their  Doctors  mouldy,  like  their  cheese. 

So  Rip  began  to  look  at  people's  tongues 
And  thump  their  briskets  (called  it  "sound  their 

lungs  "), 

Brushed  up  his  knowledge  smartly  as  he  could, 
Read  in  old  Cullen  and  in  Doctor  Good. 
The  town  was  healthy ;  for  a  month  or  two 
He  gave  the  sexton  little  work  to  do. 

About  the  time  when  dog-day  heats  begin, 
The  summer's  usual  maladies  set  in ; 
With  autumn  evenings  dysentery  came, 
And  dusky  typhoid  lit  his  smouldering  flame  ; 
The  blacksmith  ailed,  —  the  carpenter  was  down, 
And  half  the  children  sickened  in  the  town. 
The  sexton's  face  grew  shorter  than  before,  — 
The  sexton's  wife  a  brand-new  bonnet  wore,  — 
Things  looked   quite  serious,  —  Death  had  got  a 

grip 
On  old  and  young,  in  spite  of  Doctor  Rip. 

And  now  the  Squire  was  taken  with  a  chill,  — 
Wife  gave  "  hot- drops  "  — at  night  an  Indian  pill ; 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE,    M.   D.  2G3 

Next  morning,  feverish,  —  bedtime,  getting  worse, — 
Out  of  his  head,  —  began  to  rave  and  curse  ; 
The  Doctor  sent  for,  —  double  quick  he  came  : 
Ant.  Tart.  gran,  duo,  and  repeat  the  same 
If  no  et  cetera.     Third  day,  —  nothing  new  ; 
Percussed  his  thorax  till  't  was  black  and  blue,  — 
Lung-fever  threatening,  —  something  of  the  sort,  — 
Out  with  the  lancet,  — let  him  bleed,  —  a  quart,  — 
Ten  leeches  next,  —  then  blisters  to  his  side  ; 
Ten  grains  of  calomel ;  j  ust  then  he  died. 

The  Deacon  next  required  the  Doctor's  care,  — 
Took  cold  by  sitting  in  a  draught  of  air,  — 
Pains  in  the  back,  but  what  the  matter  is 
Not  quite  so  clear,  —  wife  calls  it  "  rheumatiz." 
Rubs   back  with  flannel,  —  gives  him.  something 

hot,  — 

"  Ah  !  "  says  the  Deacon,  "  that  goes  nigh  the  spot." 
Next  day  a  rigor,  —  "  Run,  my  little  man, 
And  say  the  Deacon  sends  for  Doctor  Van." 
The  Doctor  came,  —  percussion  as  before, 
Thumping  and  banging  till  his  ribs  were  sore,  — 
"  Right  side   the  flattest,"  —  then  more  vigorous 

raps,  — 

"  Fever,  —  that  Js  certain,  —  pleurisy,  perhaps. 
A  quart  of  blood  will  ease  the  pain,  no  doubt, 
Ten  leeches  next  will  help  to  suck  it  out, 
Then  clap  a  blister  on  the  painful  part,  — 
But  first  two  grains  of  Antimonium  Tart. 
Last,  with  a  dose  of  cleansing  calomel 
Unload  the  portal  system,  —  (that  sounds  well !)  " 


264          RIP    VAN    WINKLE,   M.   D. 

But  when  the  selfsame  remedies  were  tried, 
As  all  the  village  knew,  the  Squire  had  died  ; 
The  neighbors  hinted,  —  this  will  never  do, 
He  's  killed  the   Squire,  —  he  '11  kill  the  Deacon 
too." 

—  Now  when  a  doctor's  patients  are  perplexed, 
A  consultation  comes  in  order  next,  — 
You  know  what  that  is  ?     In  a  certain  place 
Meet  certain  doctors  to  discuss  a  case 
And  other  matters,  such  as  weather,  crops, 
Potatoes,  pumpkins,  lager-beer,  and  hops. 
For  what 's  the  use  ?  —  there  's  little  to  be  said, 
Nine  times  in  ten  your  man's  as  good  as  dead  ; 
At  best  a  talk  (the  secret  to  disclose) 
Where  three  men  guess  and  sometimes  one  man 
knows. 

The  counsel  summoned  came  without  delay,  — 
Young    Doctor   Green    and    shrewd   old    Doctor 

Gray,  — 
They  heard  the  story,  —  "Bleed!"   says  Doctor 

Green, 
"  That 's  downright  murder  !  cut  his  throat,  you 

mean  ! 

Leeches  !  the  reptiles  !     Why,  for  pity's  sake, 
Not  try  an  adder  or  a  rattlesnake  ? 
Blisters !     Why  bless  you,   they  're   against  the 

law,  — 

It 's  rank  assault  and  battery  if  they  draw  ! 
Tartrate  of  Antimony  !  shade  of  Luke, 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE,    M.   D.          265 

Stomachs  turn  pale  at  thought  of  such  rebuke  ! 
The  portal  system  !     What 's  the  man  about  ? 
Unload  your  nonsense  !     Calomel 's  played  out ! 
You  Ve  been  asleep,  — -  you  'd  better  sleep  away 
Till  some  one  calls  you." 

"  Stop  !  "  says  Doctor  Gray  — 
"  The  story  is  you  slept  for  thirty  years  ; 
With  brother  Green,  I  own  that  it  appears 
You  must  have  slumbered  most  amazing  sound  ; 
But  sleep  once  more  till  thirty  years  come  round, 
You  '11  find  the  lancet  in  its  honored  place, 
Leeches  and  blisters  rescued  from  disgrace, 
Your  drugs  redeemed  from  fashion's  passing  scorn, 
And  counted  safe  to  give  to  babes  unborn." 

Poor  sleepy  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D., 
A  puzzled,  serious,  saddened  man  was  he ; 
Home  from  the  Deacon's  house  he  plodded  slow 
And  filled  one  bumper  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 
"  Good-by,"  he  faltered,  "  Mrs.  Van,  my  dear ! 
I  'm  going  to  sleep,  but  wake  me  once  a  year  ; 
I  don't  like  bleaching  in  the  frost  and  dew, 
I'll  take  the  barn,  if  all  the  same  to  you. 
Just  once  a  year,  —  remember  !  no  mistake  ! 
Cry,  '  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to  wake  ! ' 
Watch  for  the  week  in  May  when  laylocks  blow, 
For  then  the  Doctors  meet,  and  I  must  go." 

Just  once  a  year  the  Doctor's  worthy  dame 
Goes  to  the  barn  and  shouts  her  husband's  name. 


266  RIP    VAN    WINKLE,   M.   D. 

"  Come,  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  (giving  him  a  shake) 
u  Hip  !  Kip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to  wake  ! 
Laylocks  in  blossom  !  't  is  the  month  of  May  — 
The  Doctors'  meeting  is  this  blessed  day, 
And  come  what  will,  you  know  I  heard  you  swear 
You  'd  never  miss  it,  but  be  always  there !  " 

And  so  it  is,  as  every  year  comes  round 
Old  Rip  Van  Winkle  here  is  always  found. 
You  '11  quickly  know  him  by  his  mildewed  air, 
The  hayseed  sprinkled  through  his  scanty  hair, 
The  lichens  growing  on  his  rusty  suit,  — 
I  Ve  seen  a  toadstool  sprouting  on  his  boot,  — 
—  Who  says  I  lie  ?     Does  any  man  presume  ?  — 
Toadstool  ?     No  matter,  —  call  it  a  mushroom. 
Where  is  his  scat  ?     He  moves  it  every  year; 
But  look,  you'll  find  him,  —  he  is  always  here, — 
Perhaps  you  '11  track  him  by  a  whiff  you  know, — 
A  certain  flavor  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

Now,  then,  I  give  you,  —  as  you  seem  to  think 
We  can  give  toasts  without  a  drop  to  drink,  — 
Health  to  the  mighty  sleeper,  —  long  live  he  ! 
Our  Brother  Kip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D. ! 


CHANSON    WITHOUT  MUSIC.        267 
CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 

BY  THE   PROFESSOR  EMERITUS  OF  DEAD  AKD  LIVE 
LANGUAGES. — *   B    K  —  CAMBRIDGE,    1867. 

rlOU  bid  me  sing,  —  can  I  forget 

The  classic  ode  of  days  gone  by,  — 
How  belle  Fifme  and  jeune  Lisette 

Exclaimed,  "  Anacreon,  geron  ei "  ? 
1  Ive-ardez  done,"  those  ladies  said,  — 
"  You  're  getting  bald  and  wrinkled  too  : 
When  summer's  roses  all  are  shed, 
Love  's  nullum  ite,  voyez-vous !  " 

In  vain  ce  brave  Anacreon's  cry, 

"  Of  Love  alone  my  banjo  sings" 
(Erota  mounon).     "  Etiam  si,  — 

Eh  b'en  ?  "  replied  the  saucy  things,  — 
'  Go  find  a  maid  whose  hair  is  gray, 

And  strike  your  lyre,  —  we  sha'  n't  complain  ; 
But  parce  nobis,  s'il  vous  plait,  — 

Voila  Adolphe  !     Voila  Eugene  !  " 

Ah,  jeune  Lisette  !     Ah,  belle  Fifme ! 

Anacreon's  lesson  all  must  learn  ; 
'O  kairos  oxus  ;  Spring  is  green, 

But  Acer  Hyems  waits  his  turn  ! 
I  hear  you  whispering  from  the  dust, 
"  Tiens,  mon  cher,  c'est  toujours  so,  — 
The  brightest  blade  grows  dim  with  rust, 

The  fairest  meadow  white  with  snow ! " 


268        CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 

—  You  do  not  mean  it !     Not  encore  ? 

Another  string  of  playday  rhymes? 
You  Ve  heard  me  —  nohne  est  ?  —  before, 

Multoties,  —  more  than  twenty  times  ; 
Non  possum,  —  vraiment,  —  pas  du  tout, 

I  cannot  !     I  am  loath  to  shirk  ; 
But  who  will  listen  if  I  do, 

My  memory  makes  such  shocking  work  ? 

Ginosko.     Scio.     Yes,  I  'm  told 

Some  ancients  like  my  rusty  lay, 
As  Grandpa  Noah  loved  the  old 

Red-sandstone  march  of  JubaTfl  day. 
I  used  to  carol  like  the  birds, 

But  time  my  wits  has  quite  unfixed, 
Et  quoad  verba,  —  for  my  words,  — 

Ciel !  Eheu !  Whe-ew  !  —  how  they  're  mixed ! 

Mehercle  !     Zeu  !     Diable  !  how 

My  thoughts  were  dressed  when  I  was  young, 
But  tempus  fugit !  see  them  now 

Half  clad  in  rags  of  every  tongue  ! 
O  philoi,  fratres,  chers  amis  ! 

I  dare  not  court  the  youthful  Muse, 
For  fear  her  sharp  response  should  be, 

"  Papa  Anacreon,  please  excuse !  " 

Adieu  !  I  've  trod  my  annual  track 

How  long  !  —  let  others  count  the  miles,  — 

And  peddled  out  my  rhyming  pack 
To  friends  who  always  paid  in  smiles. 


FOR   THE   CENTENNIAL  DINNER.     269 

So,  laissez-moi !  some  youthful  wit 
No  doubt  has  wares  he  wants  to  show  ; 

And  I  am  asking,  "  Let  me  sit/' 
Dum  ille  clainat,  "  Dos  pou  sto  ! " 


FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER 

OF    THE    PROPRIETORS    OF   BOSTON     PIER,    OR    THE 
LONG  WHARF,    APRIL    16,  1873. 

rlEAR  friends,  we  are  strangers  ;  we  never 

before 
Have  suspected  what  love  to  each  other 

we  bore  ; 

But  each  of  us  all  to  his  neighbor  is  dear, 
Whose   heart    has  a  throb  for   our   time-honored 
pier. 

As  I  look  on  each  brother  proprietor's  face, 
I  could  open  my  arms  in  a  loving  embrace ; 
What  wonder  that  feelings,  undreamed  of  so 

long, 
Should  burst  all  at  once  in  a  blossom  of  song  ! 

While  I  turn  my  fond  glance  on  the  monarch  of 

piers, 
Whose  throne  has  stood  firm  through  his  eightscore 

of  years, 


270    FOR  THE   CENTENNIAL  DINNER. 

My    thought    travels   backward  aiid   reaches  the 

day 
When  they  drove  the  first  pile  on  the  edge  of  the 

bay. 

See  !  The  joiner,  the  shipwright,  the  smith  from 

his  forge, 
The    redcoat,   who  shoulders   his  gun  for  King 

George, 
The  shopman,    the  'prentice,  the    boys  from    the 

lane, 
The  parson,  the  doctor  with  gold-headed  cane, 

Come  trooping  down  King  Street,  where  now  may 

be  seen 

The  pulleys  and  ropes  of  a  mighty  machine  ; 
The  weight  rises  slowly ;  it  drops  with  a  thud ; 
And,  lo  !  the  great  timber  sinks  deep  in  the  mud  ! 

They  are  gone,  the  stout  craftsmen  that  hammered 

the  piles, 
Aiid  the  square-toed  old  boys  in  the  three-cornered 

tiles ; 

The  breeches,  the  buckles,  have  faded  from  view, 
And  the  parson's  white  wig  and  the  ribbon-tied 

queue. 

The  redcoats  have  vanished  ;  the  last  grenadier 
Stepped  into  the  boat  from  the  end  of  our  pier  ; 
They  found  that  our  hills  were  not  easy  to  climb, 
And   the   order    came,    "  Countermarch,    double- 
quick  time  ! " 


FOR  THE   CENTENNIAL  DINNER.     271 

They  are  gone,  friend  and  foe,  —  anchored  fast  at 

the  pier, 
Whence  no  vessel  brings  back  its  pale  passengers 

here ; 

But  our  wharf,  like  a  lily,  still  floats  on  the  flood, 
Its  breast  in  the  sunshine,  its  roots  in  the  mud. 

Who,  —  who   that  has  loved  it  so  long  and  so 

well,  — 

The  flower  of  his  birthright  would  barter  or  sell  ? 
No :  pride  of  the  bay,  while  its  ripples  shall  run, 
You  shall  pass,  as  an  heirloom,  from  father  to 

son ! 

Let     me    part    with    the   acres    my    grandfather 

bought, 
With    the    bonds    that    my  uncle's  kind    legacy 

brought, 
With  my  bank-shares,  —  old  "  Union/'  whose  ten 

per  cent,  stock 
Stands  stiff  through  the  storms  as  the  Eddystone 

rock; 

With  my  rights  (or  my  wrongs)  in  the  "  Erie,"  — 

alas! 
With  my  claims  on   the  mournful  and  "Mutual 

Mass."  ; 
With  my  "  Phil.  Wil.  and  Bait./'  with  my  "  C.  B. 

and  Q.  "  ; 
But  I  never,  no  never,  will  sell  oat  of  you. 


272       A  POEM  SERVED   TO  ORDER. 

We  drink  to  thy  past  and  thy  future  to-day, 
Strong  right  arm  of  Boston,  stretched  out  o'er  the 

bay. 
May  the  winds  waft  the  wealth  of  all  nations  to 

thee, 
And  thy  dividends  flow  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  ! 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER. 

PHI    BETA    KAPPA,  JUNE  26,  1873. 

HE  Caliph  ordered  up  his  cook, 
And,  scowling  with  a  fearful  look 

That  meant,  —  We   stand  no  gam 
mon,  — 

"  To-morrow,  just  at  two,"  he  said, 
"  Hassan,  our  cook,  will  lose  his  head, 
Or  serve  us  up  a  salmon." 

"  Great  Sire,"  the  trembling  chef  replied, 
"  Lord  of  the  Earth  and  all  beside, 

Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  and  so  on"  — 
(Look  in  Eotlien  —  there  you  '11  find 
A  list  of  titles.     Never  mind, 
I  have  n't  time  to  go  on  :) 

a  Great  Sire,"  and  so  forth,  thus  he  spoke, 
"  Your  Highness  must  intend  a  joke ; 
It  does  n't  stand  to  reason 


A  POEM   SERVED   TO   ORDER.       273 

For  one  to  order  salmon  brought, 
Unless  that  fish  is  sometimes  caught, 
And  also  is  in  season. 

"  Our  luck  of  late  is  shocking  bad, 
In  fact,  the  latest  catch  we  had 

(We  kept  the  matter  shady), 
But,  hauling  in  our  nets,  —  alack  ! 
We  found  no  salmon,  but  a  sack 

That  held  your  honored  Lady  ! " 

—  "  Allah  is  great !  "  the  Caliph  said, 
"  My  poor  Zuleika,  you  are  dead, 

I  once  took  interest  in  you." 

—  "Perhaps,  my  Lord,  you  'd  like  to  know 
We  cut  the  lines  and  let  her  go." 

—  "  Allah  be  praised  !     Continue." 

—  "  It  is  n't  hard  one's  hook  to  bait, 
And,  squatting  down,  to  watch  and  wait, 

To  see  the  cork  go  under  ; 
At  hist  suppose  you  Ve  got  your  bite, 
You  twitch  away  with  all  your  might, — 

You  've  hooked  an  eel,  by  thunder !  " 

The  Caliph  patted  Hassan's  head  : 
"  Slave,  thou  hast  spoken  well,"  he  said, 

"And  wron  thy  master's  favor. 
Yes;  since  what  happened  t'  other  morn 
The  salmon  of  the  Golden  Horn 

Might  have  a  doubtful  flavor. 

VOL.   II.  18 


274       A  POEM  SERVED   TO   ORDER. 

"  That  last  remark  about  the  eel 
Has  also  justice  that  we  feel 

Quite  to  our  satisfaction. 
To-morrow  we  dispense  with  fish, 
And,  for  the  present,  if  you  wish, 
You  '11  keep  your  bulbous  fraction." 

"  Thanks !  thanks  !  "  the  grateful  chef  replied, 
-    His  nutrient  feature  showing  wide 

The  gleam  of  arches  dental  : 
"  To  cut  my  head  off  would  n't  pay, 
I  find  it  useful  every  day, 
As  well  as  ornamental." 


Brothers,  I  hope  you  will  not  fail 
To  see  the  moral  of  my  tale 

And  kindly  to  receive  it. 
You  know  your  anniversary  pie 
Must  have  its  crust,  though  hard  and  dry, 

And  some  prefer  to  leave  it. 

How  oft  before  these  youths  were  born 
I  Ve  fished  in  Fancy's  Golden  Horn 

For  what  the  Muse  might  send  me  ! 
How  gayly  then  I  cast  the  line, 
When  all  the  morning  sky  was  mine, 

And  Hope  her  flies  would  lend  me  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH.        275 

And  now  I  hear  our  despot's  call, 
And  come,  like  Hassan,  to  the  hall,  — 

If  there  's  a  slave,  I  am  one,  — 
My  bait  no  longer  flies,  but  worms  ! 
I  've  caught  —  Lord  bless  me !  how  he  squirms ! 

An  eel,  and  not  a  salmon  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

READ    AT    THE    MEETING    OP    THE     HARVARD 
ALUMNI    ASSOCIATION,    JUNE    25,    1873. 

HE  fount  the  Spaniard  sought  in  vain 

Through  all  the  land  of  flowers 
Leaps  glittering  from  the  sandy  plain 

Our  classic  grove  embowers  ; 
Here  youth,  unchanging,  blooms  and  smiles, 

Here  dwells  eternal  spring, 
And  warm  from  Hope's  elysian  isles 
The  winds  their  perfume  bring. 

Here  every  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 

Each  singing  throat  in  tune, 
And  bright  o'er  evening's  silver  flood 

Shines  the  young  crescent  moon. 
What  wonder  Age  forgets  his  staff 

And  lays  his  glasses  down, 
And  gray-haired  gmndsires  look  and  laugh 

As  when  their  locks  were  brown  ! 


276        THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

With  ears  grown  dull  and  eyes  grown  dim 

They  greet  the  joyous  day 
That  calls  them  to  the  fountain's  brim 

To  wash  their  years  away. 
What  change  has  clothed  the  ancient  sire 

In  sudden  youth  ?     For,  lo  ! 
The  Judge,  the  Doctor,  and  the  Squire 

Are  Jack  and  Bill  and  Joe  ! 

And  be  his  titles  what  they  will, 

In  spite  of  manhood's  claim 
The  gray  beard  is  a  school-boy  still 

And  loves  his  school-boy  name ; 
It  calms  the  ruler's  stormy  breast 

Whom  hurrying  care  pursues, 
And  brings  a  sense  of  peace  and  rest, 

Like  slippers  after  shoes. 

And  what  are  all  the  prizes  won 
To  youth's  enchanted  view? 

And  what  is  all  the  man  has  done 
To  what  the  boy  may  do  ? 

0  blessed  fount,  whose  waters  flow 
Alike  for  sire  and  son, 

That  melts  our  winter's  frost  and  snow 
And  makes  all  ages  one  ! 

1  pledge  the  sparkling  fountain's  tide, 

That  flings  its  golden  shower 
With  age  to  fill  and  youth  to  guide, 
Still  fresh  in  morning  flower! 


A  HYMN  OF  PEACE.  277 

Flow  on  with  ever-widening  stream, 

In  ever-brightening  morn,  — 
Our  story's  pride,  our  future's  dream, 

The  hope  of  times  unborn  ! 


A   HYMN  OF  PEACE. 

SUNG  AT  THE  "JUBILEE,"  JUNE  15,  1869,  TO  THE 
MUSIC  OF  KELLER'S  "AMERICAN  HYMN." 

3)NGEL  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too 

long ! 

Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the   sun 
shine  of  love ! 
Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in  song,  — 
Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove  ! 
Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove,  — 

Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love,  — 
Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long  ! 

Joyous  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thine 

Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for  thee, 
Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 

Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  the  sea,  — 
Meadow  and  mountain  and  forest  and  sea ! 

Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
Sweeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers  once  more  round  this  altar  of  thine  ! 


278  A  HYMN  OF  PEACE. 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain  ! 

Hark !  a  new  birth- song  is  filling  the  sky  !  — 
Loud  as  the  storm- wind  that  tumbles  the  main 

Bid  the  full  breath  of  the  organ  reply,  — 
Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply,  — 

Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth-shaking  main ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the  sky  !  — 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain  ! 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 

TO   1878. 


r 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 

TO    1878. 


AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS. 
AUGUST  29,  1859. 

REMEMBER  —  why  yes  !    God  bless 

me  !  and  was  it  so  long  ago  ? 
I  fear  I  'm  growing    forgetful,  as  old 

folks  do,  you  know ; 
It  must  have  been  in  'forty  —  I  would   say  'thirty- 
nine  — 
We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a  friend  of  mine. 

He  said  "  Well  now,  old  fellow,  I  'm  thinking  that 

you  arid  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older  by  and 

by; 

What  though  the  bright  blue  ocean  is  smooth  as  a 

pond  can  be, 
There  is  always  a  line  of  breakers  to  fringe  the 

broadest  sea. 


282      AT  A  MEETING   OF  FRIENDS. 

"  We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that  is  nothing 

strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our  years  like 

change  ; 
But  creeping  up  towards  the  forties,  as  fast  as  the 

old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem  to  change 

a  bill. 

"  —  I  know  it,  —  I  said,  —  old  fellow  ;  you  speak 

the  solemn  truth  ; 
A  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  likewise  keep  his 

youth ; 
But  what  if  the  ten  years  coming  shall  silver-streak 

my  hair, 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty  ;  of  course  I  shall 

not  care. 

"  At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired  of  fun  and 

noise ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-twenties  and  love  to 

the  silly  boys ; 
No  foppish  tricks  at   forty,  no  pinching  of  waists 

and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good  thick 

worsted  hose." 

But  one    fine   August    morning   I  found  myself 

awake : 
My  birthday: — By  Jove,  I  'm  forty!  Yes,  forty, 

and  no  mistake  ! 


AT  A  MEETING   OF  FfilENDS.      283 

Why  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think  I  used  to 

hold, 
That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow  would 

then  be  old ! 

But  that  is  the  young  folks'  nonsense;  they  're  full 

of  their  foolish  stuff; 
A  man  's  in  his  prime  at  forty,  —  I  see  that  plain 

enough ; 
At  fifty  a  man  2S  wrinkled,  and  may  be  bald  or 

gray  ; 
I  call  men  old  at  fifty,  in  spite  of  all  they  say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist  and  rain 

and  shine ; 
Its   mornings    are    slowly   counted   and   creep  to 

twenty-nine, 
And  when  on  the  western  summits  the  fading  light 

appears, 
It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of  my  fifty 

years. 

There  have  been    both   men  and   women   whose 

hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But  there  never  was  one  of  fifty  that  loved  to  say 

"  I  'm  old  "  ; 
So   any  elderly  person  that  strives  to   shirk  his 

years, 
Make  him  stand  up  at  a  table  and  try  him  by  his 

peers. 


284       A  FAREWELL   TO.  AGASSIZ. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,  my  jury  gathered  round ; 
Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not  yet  silver 

crowned, 
Ready  to  meet  your  verdict,  waiting  to  hear  it 

told; 
Guilty  of  fifty  summers;  speak!     Is   the  verdict 

old? 

No !  say  that  his  hearing  fails  him ;  say  that  his 

sight  grows  dim ; 
Say  that  he  's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak  in  back 

and  limb, 
Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  pleading,  to  make 

amends, 
The  youth  of   his  fifty  summers  he  finds  in  his 

twenty  friends. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  AGASSIZ. 

]OW  the  mountains  talked  together, 
Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 
When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned 

his 

Little  trip  among  the  Andes  ! 
How  they  '11  bare  their  snowy  scalps 
To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 
When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 
"  Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz !  " 
"  Yes,  I  'm  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 
"  But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so,  — 


A   FAREWELL    TO  AGASSTZ.         285 

That  's  the  only  thing  that  lacks,  —  he 

Must  see  me,  Cotopaxi !  " 
"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  the  fire-peak  thunders, 
"  And  he  must  view  my  wonders  ! 

I  'm  but  a  lonely  crater 

Till  I  have  him  for  spectator ! " 

The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 

The  lava-torches  burning, 

The  rivers  bend  to  meet  him, 

The  forests  bow  to  greet  him, 

It  thrills  the  spinal  column 

Of  fossil  fishes  solemn, 

And  glaciers  crawl  the  faster 

To  the  feet  of  their  old  master  ! 

Heaven  keep  him  well  and  hearty, 
Both  him  and  all  his  party  ! 
From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 
From  the  centipede  that  bites, 
From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder, 
From  the  vampire  and  the  condor, 
From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 
From  the  sudden  earthquake  shiver, 
From  the  trip  of  mule  or  donkey, 
From  the  midnight  howling  monkey, 
From  the  stroke  of  knife  or  dagger, 
From  the  puma  and  the  jaguar, 
From  the  horrid  boa-constrictor 
That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur', 
From  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas 
Who  would  dine  upon  their  grampas, 


286        A  FAREWELL    TO  AGASSIZ. 

From  every  beast  and  vermin 

That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirming, 

From  every  snake  that  tries  on 

The  traveller  his  p'ison, 

From  every  pest  of  Natur', 

Likewise  the  alligator, 

And  from  two  things  left  behind  him,  — 

(Be  sure  they  '11  try  to  find  him,) 

The  tax-bill  and  assessor,  — 

Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor  ! 

May  he  find,  with  his  apostles, 
That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils, 
That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 
Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 
That  every  pool  is  fertile 
In  fancy  kinds  of  turtle, 
New  birds  around  him  singing, 
New  insects,  never  stinging, 
With  a  million  novel  data 
About  the  articulata, 
And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 
From  the  history  of  mollusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 

He  returns  to  his  Museum, 

May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 

That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 

By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 

And  by  Father"  Abraham  bottled, 

(All  specked  and  streaked  and  mottled 


A  FAREWELL   TO  AGASSIZ.         287 

With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles, 
Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 
That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,) 
For  all  the  world  to  look  at ! 

God  bless  the  great  Professor  ! 
And  Madam,  too,  God  bless  her  ! 
Bless  him  and  all  his  band, 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  laud, 
Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore  ! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 
Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 
And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons 
Join  the  living  creatures'  paeans, 
Till  the  fossil  echoes  roar  ; 
While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus,  — 
God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  his  proud  possessor,  — 
Bless  them  now  and  evermore  ! 
1865. 


/UNIVERSITY 


288  A  SEA  DIALOGUE. 


A   SEA  DIALOGUE. 

Cabin  Passenger.  Man  at  Wheel. 

CABIN   PASSENGER. 

RIEND,  you   seem   thoughtful.     I  not 

wonder  much 
That  he  who  sails  the  ocean  should  be 

sad., 

I  am  myself  reflective.  —  When  I  think 
Of  all  this  wallowing  beast,  the  Sea,  has  sucked 
Between  his  sharp,  thin  lips,  the  wedgy  waves, 
What  heaps  of  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds,  pearls  ; 
What  piles  of  shekels,  talents,  ducats,  crowns, 
What  bales  of  Tynan  mantles,  Indian  shawls, 
Of  laces  that  have  blanked  the  weavers'  eyes, 
Of  silken  tissues,  wrought  by  worm  and  man, 
The  half-starved  workman,  and  the  well-fed  worm  ; 
What  marbles,  bronzes,  pictures,  parchments,  books; 
What  many-lobuled,  thought-engendering  brains ; 
Lie  with  the  gaping  sea-shells  in  his  maw,  — 
I,  too,  am  silent ;  for  all  language  seems 
A  mockery,  and  the  speech  of  man  is  vain. 
O  mariner,  we  look  upon  the  waves 
And  they  rebuke  our  babbling.     "Peace!"  they 

say,  — 

"  Mortal,  be  still !  "     My  noisy  tongue  is  hushed, 
And  with  my  trembling  finger  on  my  lips 
My  soul  exclaims  in  ecstasy  — 


A  SEA  DIALOGUE.  289 

MAN   AT   WHEEL. 

Belay ! 

CABIN   PASSENGER. 

Ah  yes  !     "  Delay,"  —  it  calls,  "  nor  haste  to  break 
The  charm  of  stillness  with  an  idle  word  !  " 

0  mariner,  I  love  thee,  for  thy  thought 
Strides  even  with  my  own,  nay,  flies  before. 
Thou  art  a  brother  to  the  wind  and  wave  ; 
Have  they  not  music  for  thine  ear  as  mine, 
When  the  wild  tempest  makes  thy  ship  his  lyre,  ** 
Smiting  a  cavernous  basso  from  the  shrouds 

And  climbing  up  his  gamut  through  the  stays, 
Through  buntlines,  bowlines,  ratlines,  till  it  shrills 
An  alto  keener  than  the  locust  sings,   __ 
And  all  the  great  JEolian  orchestra 
Storms  out  its  mad  sonata  in  the  gale  ? 
Is  not  the  scene  a  wrondrous  and  — 

MAN   AT    WHEEL. 

Avast ! 

CABIN    PASSENGER. 

Ah  yes,  a  vast,  a  vast  and  wondrous  scene  ! 

1  see  thy  soul  is  open  as  the  day 

That  holds  the  sunshine  in  its  azure  bowl 
To  all  the  solemn  glories  of  the  deep. 
Tell  me,  0  mariner,  dost  thou  never  feel 
The  grandeur  of  thine  office,  —  to  control 
The  keel  that  cuts  the  ocean  like  a  knife 

VOL.  II  19 


290    AT  THE  "ATLANTIC"   DINNER. 

And  leaves  a  wake  behind  it  like  a  seam 
In  the  great  shining  garment  of  the  world  1 

MAN    AT   WHEEL. 

Belay  y'r  jaw,  y*  swab  !  y'  hoss-marine  ! 

(To  the  Captain.) 

Ay,  ay,  Sir  !     Stiddy,  Sir  !     SouVes'  b'  sou'  ! 
NOVEMBER  10, 1864. 


AT   THE    "ATLANTIC"  DINNER. 

DECEMBER    15,    1874. 


SUPPOSE  it 's  myself  that  you  're  mak 
ing  allusion  to 
And  bringing  the  sense  of  dismay  and 

confusion  to, 

Of  course  some  must  speak,  —  they  are  always  se 
lected  to, 

But  pray  what 's  the  reason  that  I  am  expected  to  1 
I  'm  not  fond  of  wasting  my  breath  as  those  fellows 

do 

That  want  to  be  blowing  forever  as  bellows  do ; 
Their  legs  are  uneasy,  but  why  will  you  jog  any 
That  long  to  stay  quiet  beneath  the  mahogany  ? 

Why,  why  call  me  up  with  your  battery  of  flat 
teries  ? 

You  say  "  He  writes  poetry,"  —  that  's  what  the 
matter  is ! 


AT  THE   "ATLANTIC"  DINNER.     291 

"  It  costs  him  no  trouble,  —  a  pen  full  of  ink  or  two 
And  the  poem  is  done  in  the  time  of  a  wink  or  two ; 
As  for  thoughts,  —  never  mind,  —  take  the  ones 

that  lie  uppermost, 
And  the  rhymes  used  by  Milton  and  Byron  and 

Tupper  most ; 

The  lines  come  so  easy  !  at  one  end  he  jingles  'em, 
At  the  other  with  capital  letters  he  shingles  'em, — 
Why,  the  thing  writes  itself,  and  before  he  's  half 

done  with  it 
He  hates  to  stop  writing  he  has  such  good  fun  with 

it!" 

Ah,  that  is  the  way  in  which  simple  ones  go  about 
And  draw  a  fine  picture  of  things  they  don't  know 

about ! 

We  all  know  a  kitten,  but  come  to  a  catamount 
The  beast  is  a  stranger  when  grown  up  to  that 

amount, 

(A  stranger  we  rather  prefer  should  n't  visit  us, 
A  fells  whose  advent  is  far  from  felicitous.) 
The  boy  who  can  boast  that  his  trap  has  just  got  a 

mouse 

Must  n't  draw  it  and  write  underneath  "  hippopot 
amus  " ; 

Or  say  unveraciously,  "  this  is  an  elephant,"  — 
Don't  think,    let   me  beg,   these  examples  irrele 
vant,  — 
What  they  mean  is  just  this,  — that  a  thing  to  be 

painted  well 

Should  always  be  something  with  which  wre  're  ac 
quainted  well. 


292    AT  THE  "ATLANTIC"   DINNER. 

You  call  on  your  victim  for  "  things  he  has  plenty 

of,- 
Those  copies  of  verses  no  doubt  at  least  twenty 

of; 
His  desk  is  crammed  full,  for    he   always  keeps 

writing  'em 

And  reading  to  friends  as  his  way  of  delight 
ing  'cm  !  "  — 

I  tell  you  this  writing  of  verses  means  business,  — 
It  makes  the  brain  whirl  in  a  vortex  of  dizziness  : 
You   think  they  are  scrawled  in  the  languor  of 

laziness,  — 
I  tell  you  they  're  squeezed   by  a  spasm  of  crazi- 

ness, 

A  fit  half  as  bad  as  the  staggering  vertigos 
That  seize  a  poor  fellow  and  down  in  the  dirt  he 

goes ! 

And  therefore  it  chimes  with  the  word's  etymol 
ogy 

That  the  sons  of  Apollo  are  great  on  apology, 

For  the  writing  of  verse  is  a  struggle  mysterious, 

And  the  gayest  of  rhymes  is  a  matter  that  's  se 
rious. 

For  myself,  I  'm  relied  on  by  friends  in  extremi 
ties, 

And  I  don't  mind  so  much  if  a  comfort  to  them  it 
is  ; 

'T  is  a  pleasure  to  please,  and  the  straw  that  can 
tickle  us 

Is  a  source  of  enjoyment  though  slightly  ridicu 
lous. 


AT  THE    "ATLANTIC"   DINNER.    293 

I  am  up  for  a, — something,  —  and  since  I've  be 
gun  with  it, 

I  must  give  you  a  toast  now  before  I  have  done 
with  it. 

Let  me  pump  at  my  wits  as  they  pumped  the 
Cochituate 

That  moistened,  —  it  may  be,  —  the  very  last  bit 
you  ate. 

—  Success  to  our  publishers,  authors  and  editors ; 

To  our  debtors  good  luck,  —  pleasant  dreams  to 
our  creditors  ; 

May  the  monthly  grow  yearly,  till  all  we  are  grop 
ing  for 

Has  reached  the  fulfilment  we  're  all  of  us  hoping 
for; 

Till  the  bore  through  the  tunnel  —  it  makes  me 
let  off  a  sigh 

To  think  it  may  possibly  ruin  my  prophecy  — 

Has  been  punned  on  so  often  't  will  never  provoke 
again 

One  mild  adolescent  to  make  the  old  joke  again ; 

Till  abstinent,  all-go-to-meeting  society 

Has  forgotten  the  sense  of  the  word  inebriety  ; 

Till  the  work  that  poor  Hannah  and  Bridget  and 
Phillis  do 

The  humanized,  civilized  female  gorillas  do  ; 

Till  the  roughs,  as  we  call  them,  grown  loving  and 
dutiful, 

Shall  worship  the  true  and  the  pure  and  the  beau 
tiful, 

And,  preying  no  longer  as  tiger  and  vulture  do, 

All  read  the  "  Atlantic  "  as  persons  of  culture  do  ! 


294  "LUCY." 

"  LUCY." 

FOR    HER   GOLDEN  WEDDING,  OCTOBER  18,  1875. 


."  —  The  old  familiar  name 
Is  now,  as  always,  pleasant, 
Its  liquid  melody  the  same 
Alike  in  past  or  present  ; 
Let  others  call  you  what  they  will, 

I  know  you  '11  let  me  use  it  ; 
To  me  your  name  is  Lucy  still, 
I  cannot  bear  to  lose  it. 

What  visions  of  the  past  return 

With  Lucy's  image  blended  ! 
What  memories  from  the  silent  urn 

Of  gentle  lives  long  ended  ! 
What  dreams  of  childhood's  fleeting  morn, 

What  starry  aspirations, 
That  filled  the  misty  days  unborn 

With  fancy's  coruscations  ! 

Ah,  Lucy,  life  has  swiftly  sped 

From  April  to  November  ; 
The  summer  blossoms  all  are  shed 

That  you  and  I  remember  ; 
But  while  the  vanished  years  we  share 

With  mingling  recollections. 
How  all  their  shadowy  features  wear 

The  hue  of  old  affections  ! 


HYMN.  295 

Love  called  you.     He  who  stole  your  heart 

Of  sunshine  half  bereft  us  ; 
Our  household's  garland  fell  apart 

The  morning  that  you  left  us  ; 
The  tears  of  tender  girlhood  streamed 

Through  sorrow's  opening  sluices; 
Less  sweet  our  garden's  roses  seemed, 

Less  blue  its  flower-de-luces. 

That  old  regret  is  turned  to  smiles, 

That  parting  sigh  ro  greeting  ; 
I  send  my  heart-throb  fifty  miles,  — 

Through  every  line  't  is  beating  ; 
God  grant  you  many  and  happy  years, 

Till  when  the  last  has  crowned  you 
The  dawn  of  endless  day  appears, 

And  heaven  is  shining  round  you  ! 
OCTOBER  11, 1875. 


HYMN. 

FOR  THE  INAUGURATION   OF    THE  STATUE  OF  GOV 
ERNOR  ANDREW,  TIINGHAM,    OCTOBER    7,   1875. 

EHOLD  the  shape  our  eyes  have  known  ! 
It  lives  once  more  in  changeless  stone  ; 
So  looked  in  mortal  face  and  form 
Our  guide  through  peril's  deadly  storm. 


296  HYMN. 

But  hushed  the  beating  heart  we  knew, 
That  heart  so  tender,  brave,  and  true, 
Firm  as  the  rooted  mountain  rock, 
Pure  as  the  quarry's  whitest  block  ! 

Not  his  beneath  the  blood-red  star 
To  win  the  soldier's  envied  scar ; 
Unarmed  he  battled  for  the  right, 
In  Duty's  never-ending  fight. 

Unconquered  will,  unslumbering  eye, 
Faith  such  as  bids  the  martyr  die, 
The  prophet's  glance,  the  master's  hand 
To  mould  the  work  his  foresight  planned,  — 

These  were  his  gifts  ;  what  Heaven  had  lent 
For  justice,  mercy,  truth,  he  spent, 
First  to  avenge  the  traitorous  blow, 
And  first  to  lift  the  vanquished  foe. 

Lo,  thus  he  stood  ;  in  danger's  strait 
The  pilot  of  the  Pilgrim  State  ! 
Too  large  his  fame  for  her  alone,  — 
A  nation  claims  him  as  her  own  ! 


A  MEMORIAL   TRIBUTE.  297 


A  MEMORIAL   TRIBUTE. 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  HELD  AT  MUSIC  HALL, 
FEBRUARY  8,  1876,  IN  MEMORY  OF  DR.  SAMUEL 
G.  HOWE. 

I. 

EADER  of  armies,  Israel's  God, 

Thy  soldier's  fight  is  won  ! 
Master,  whose  lowly  path  he  trod, 
Thy  servant's  work  is  done  ! 

No  voice  is  heard  from  Sinai's  steep 

Our  wandering  feet  to  guide  ; 
From  Horeb's  rock  no  waters  leap  ; 

No  Jordan's  waves  divide  ; 

No  prophet  cleaves  our  western  sky 

On  wheels  of  whirling  fire  ; 
No  shepherds  hear  the  song  on  high 

Of  heaven's  angelic  choir  ; 

Yet  here  as  to  the  patriarch's  tent 

God's  angel  comes  a  guest ; 
He  comes  on  Heaven's  high  errand  sent, 

In  earth's  poor  raiment  drest. 

We  see  no  halo  round  his  brow 
Till  love  its  own  recalls, 


298  A  MEMORIAL    TRIBUTE. 

And  like  a  leaf  that  quits  the  bough, 
The  mortal  vesture  falls. 

In  autumn's  chill  declining  day, 
Ere  winter's  killing  frost, 

The  message  came  ;  so  passed  away 
The  friend  our  earth  has  lost. 

Still,  Father,  in  Thy  love  we  trust ; 

Forgive  us  if  we  mourn 
The  saddening  hour  that  laid  in  dust 

His  robe  of  flesh  outworn. 


II. 

How  long  the  wreck-strewn  journey  seems 

To  reach  the  far-off  past 
That  woke  his  youth  from  peaceful  dreams 

With  Freedom's  trumpet-blast ! 

Along  her  classic  hillsides  rung 

The  Paynim's  battle-cry, 
And  like  a  red-cross  knight  he  sprung 

For  her  to  live  or  die. 

No  trustier  service  claimed  the  wreath 

For  Sparta's  bravest  son  ; 
No  truer  soldier  sleeps  beneath 

The  mound  of  Marathon  ; 


A  MEMORIAL   TRIBUTE.  299 

Yet  not  for  him  the  warrior's  grave 

In  front  of  angry  foes  ; 
To  lift,  to  shield,  to  help,  to  save, 

The  holier  task  he  chose. 

He  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 

And  lo  !  the  veil  withdrawn, 
As  o'er  the  midnight  of  the  mind, 

He  led  the  light  of  dawn. 

He  asked  not  whence  the  fountains  roll 

No  traveller's  foot  has  found, 
But  mapped  the  desert  of  the  soul 

Untracked  by  sight  or  sound. 

What  prayers  have  reached  the   sapphire 
throne, 

By  silent  fingers  spelt, 
For  him  who  first  through  depths  unknown 

His  doubtful  pathway  felt, 

Who  sought  the  slumbering  sense  that  lay 

Close  shut  with  bolt  and  bar, 
And  showed  awakening  thought  the  ray 

Of  reason's  morning  star  ! 

Where'er  he  moved,  his  shadowy  form 

The  sightless  orbs  would  seek, 
And  smiles  of  welcome  light  and  warm 

The  lips  that  could  not  speak. 


300  A  MEMORIAL   TRIBUTE. 

No  labored  line,  no  sculptor's  art, 
Such  hallowed  memory  needs  ; 

His  tablet  is  the  human  heart, 
His  record  loving  deeds. 


III. 

THE  rest  that  earth  denied  is  thine,  — 

Ah,  is  it  rest  ?  we  ask, 
Or,  traced  by  knowledge  more  divine, 

Some  larger,  nobler  task  ? 

Had  but  those  boundless  fields  of  blue 
One  darkened  sphere  like  this ; 

But  what  has  Heaven  for  thee  to  do 
In  realms  of  perfect  bliss  ? 

No  cloud  to  lift,  no  mind  to  clear, 
No  rugged  path  to  smooth, 

No  struggling  soul  to  help  and  cheer, 
No  mortal  grief  to  soothe ! 

Enough  ;  is  there  a  world  of  love, 

No  more  we  ask  to  know  ; 
The  hand  will  guide  thy  ways  above 

That  shaped  thy  task  below. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.  301 


JOSEPH  WARREN,  M.  D. 

DRAINED  in  the   holy  art  whose  lifted 

shield 
Wards  off  the  darts  a  never-slumbering 

foe, 

By  hearth  and  wayside  lurking,  waits  to  throw, 
Oppression  taught  his  helpful  arm  to  wield 
The  slayer's  weapon  :  on  the  murderous  field 
The  fiery  bolt  he  challenged  laid  him  low, 
Seeking  its  noblest  victim.     Even  so 
The  charter  of  a  nation  must  be  sealed  ! 
The  healer's  brow  the  hero's  honors  crowned, 
From  lowliest  duty  called  to  loftiest  deed. 
Living,  the  oak-leaf  wreath  his  temples  bound; 
Dying,  the  conqueror's  laurel  was  his  meed, 
Last  on  the  broken  rampart's  turf  to  bleed 
Where  Freedom's  victory  in  defeat  was  found. 
JUNE  11, 1875. 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY   OF    BUNKER- 
HILL  BATTLE. 

AS  SHE  SAW  IT  FROM  THE  BELFRY. 

IS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at 
eighty,  one  remembers 

All  the  achinirs  and  the  quakings  of  "  the 
times  that  tried  men's  souls  "  ; 


302          STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the 

Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,   but  to  me  they  're 

burning  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  run 
ning  battle  ; 

Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red 
coats  still  ; 

But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms 
up  before  me, 

When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the  slopes 
of  Bunker's  Hill- 

'T  was  a  peaceful    summer's  morning,  when  the 

first  thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and 

the  shore : 
"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's  the  matter,  what 

is  all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder 

us  once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst 

of  all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began 

to  roar  : 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter 

and  the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father  with  their 

bullets  through  his  door. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.          303 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  dear  old  granny,  don't  you 
fret  and  worry  any, 

For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this 
is  work  or  glay  ; 

There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a 
minute  "  — 

For  a  minute  then  I  started.  I  was  gone  the  live 
long  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  gri 
macing  ; 

Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half 
way  to  my  heels ; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when  there  's  blood 
around  her  flowing, 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  house 
hold  feels  ! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping  ;  and  I  knew  it 

was  the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden 

leg  he  wore, 
With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was  lucky 

I  had  found  him, 
So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal 

marched  before. 

They  were  making  for  the  stecole,  —  the  old  sol 
dier  and  his  people ; 

The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the 
creaking  stair, 


304          STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

Just  across  the  narrow  river, -J-  O,  so  close  it  made 

me  shiver !  — 
Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday 

was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who 

stood  behind  it, 
Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the 

stubborn  walls  were  dumb  : 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild 

upon  each  other, 
And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said, 

THE  HOUR  HAS  COME  ! 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel  had  we 
tasted, 

And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  can 
nons'  deafening  thrill, 

When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart 
strode  sedately ; 

It  was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me ;  he  com 
manded  on  the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when  we  saw  his 

manly  figure, 
"With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it,  standing  up  so 

straight  and  tall ; 
Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for 

pleasure, 
Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon-shot  he 

walked  around  the  wall. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.          305 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red 
coats'  ranks  were  forming  ; 

At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the 
piers  ; 

How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we 
looked  far  down,  and  listened 

To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted 
grenadiers  ! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it 
seemed  faint-hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks 
on  their  backs, 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea- 
fight's  slaughter, 

Round  the  barges  sliding  onward  blushed  like 
blood  along  their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they 

formed  in  order ; 
And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for 

soldiers,  soldiers  still : 
The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint 

and  fasting,  — 
At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly 

up  the  hill. 

"We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the 

lines  advancing,  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley,  —  they  have 

thrown  away  their  shot ; 
VOL.  11.          20 


306          STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

For  behind  their   earthwork  lying,  all   the  balls 

above  them  flying, 
Our  people  need    not  hurry  ;    so   they  wait  and 

answer  not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear 

sometimes  and  tipple),  — 
He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French 

war)  before,  — 
Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all 

were  hearing,  — 
And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty 

belfry  floor :  — 

"  Oh  !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn  King  George's 

shillings, 
But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  '  rebel ' 

falls ; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're  as 

safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten    foot    beneath    the   gravestone  that   you  've 

splintered  with  your  balls  !  " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepida 
tion 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well- 
nigh  breathless  all ; 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety 
belfry  railing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves 
against  a  wall. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.          307 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they  /re  nearer, 
—  nearer,  — nearer, 

When  a  flash,  —  a  curling-  smoke-wreath,  —  then  a 
crash,  —  the  steeple  shakes,  — 

The  deadly  truce  is  ended  ;  the  tempest's  shroud  is 
rended  ; 

Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder 
cloud  it  breaks ! 

O   the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black 

smoke  blows  over ! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower 

rakes  his  hay  ; 
Here   a  scarlet   heap   is   lying,   there  a   headlong 

crowd  is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered  into 

spray. 

Then  we  cried,  "  The  troops  are  routed  !  they  are 

beat,  —  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 
God  be  thanked,  the   fight  is  over !  •''  —  Ah  !  the 

grim  old  soldier's  smile  ! 
"Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so?"  (we  could 

hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
"  Are  they  beaten  ?     Are  they  beaten  ?     ARE  they 

beaten  V  —  "  Wait  a  while." 

O  the  trembling  and   the  terror !  for  too  soon  we 

saw  our  error : 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated  ;    we  have  driven 

them  back  in  vain  ; 


308  STOEY   OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

And   the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the 

colors  ihat  were  tattered, 
Toward  tlKTsulleh  silent  fortress  turn  their  belted 

breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo   the   roofs   of 

Charlestown  blazing ! 
They  have  fired  the  harmless  village;  in  an  hour  it 

will  be  down  ! 
The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire 

and  brimstone  round  them, — 
The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn 

a  peaceful  town  ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn ;  we  can  see 
each  massive  column 

As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slant 
ing  walls  so  steep. 

Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless 
haste  departed  ? 

Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless  ?  Are  they  pal 
sied  or  asleep? 

Now  !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under  !  scarce  a  rod 
the  foes  asunder  ! 

Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them  !  up  the  earth 
work  they  will  swarm  ! 

But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken,  when  the 
ominous  calm  is  broken, 

And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  ven 
geance  of  the  storm ! 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.          309 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  back 
wards  to  the  water, 

Ely  Pigot's  miming  heroes  and  the  frightened 
braves  of  Howe ; 

And  we  shout,  "At  last  they  're  done  for,  it 's  their 
barges  they  have  run  for : 

They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten ;  and  the  battle  's 
over  now ! " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough 

old  soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we 

would  ask : 
"  Not  sure/'  he  said  ;  "  keep  quiet,  —  once  more,  I 

gue.ss,  they  '11  try  it,  — 
Here  's  damnation  to  tlie  cut-throats  !  " then 

he  handed  me  his  flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking  shaky  ;  have  a  drop 

of  old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job 

is  done  "  ; 
So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow;  dreadful  faint  I 

felt  and  hollow, 
Standing-  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing 

was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a 

calm  clock  dial, 
As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  — they  were 

creeping  round  to  four, 


310          STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL. 

When  the  old  man  said,  u  They  're  forming  with 
their  bagonets  fixed  for  storming  ; 

It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a  coming,  —  they  will  try 
the  works  once  more." 

Withjbrazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind 
them  glaring, 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they 
come  ; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold 
uncoiling,  — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverber 
ating  drum ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory,  —  shall  I  tell  the  fear 
ful  story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea 
breaks  over  a  deck  ; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men 
retreated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swim 
mers  from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted ;  as  for  me,  they 

say  I  fainted, 
And  the  wooden-legged  old  Corporal  stumped  with 

me  down  the  stair  : 
When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the  evening 

lamps  were  lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying ;  his  bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL.          311 

And  I  heard  through   all  the  flurry,  "Send  for 

WARREX  !  hurry  !  hurry ! 
Tell  him  here 's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11  come 

and  dress  his  wound  !  " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of 

"death  and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark 

and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was,  where  the 
place  from  which  he  came  was, 

Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left 
him  at  our  door, 

He  could  not  speak  to  tell  us;  but  'twas  one  of 
our  brave  fellows, 

As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dy 
ing  soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gath 
ered  round  him  crying,  — 

And  they  said,  "  O,  how  they  '11  miss  him !  "  and, 
"  What  will  his  mother  do  ? " 

Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a  child's  that 
has  been  dozing, 

He  faintly  murmured,  "  Mother  !  " and  —  I 

saw  his  eyes  were  blue. 

—  "  Why,  grandma,  how  you  're  winking !  "  —  Ah, 

my  child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow 

lived  along  ; 


312  OLD   CAMBRIDGE. 

So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I  nursed  him 
like  a  —  mother, 

Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy- 
cheeked,  and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the  pleasant 

summer  weather ; 
—  "  Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was  ?  "  —  Just 

your  own,  my  little  dear,  — 
There  's  his  picture  Copley  painted  :  we  became  so 

well  acquainted, 
That  —  in  short,  that  's  why  I  'm  grandma,  and 

you  children  all  are  here  ! 


OLD   CAMBRIDGE. 
JULY  3,  1875. 

ND  can  it  be  you  Ve  found  a  place 
Within  this  consecrated  space 
That  makes  so  fine  a  show 
For  one  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  race  ? 
And  is  it  really  so  ? 
Who  wants  an  old  receipted  bill  ? 
Who  fishes  in  the  Frog-pond  still  ? 
Who  digs  last  year's  potato  hill  ?  — 
That 's  what  he  'd  like  to  know ! 


OLD   CAMBRIDGE.  313 

And  were  it  any  spot  on  earth 

Save  this  dear  home  that  gave  him  birth 

Somes  scores  of  years  ago, 
He  had  not  come  to  spoil  your  mirth 

And  chill  your  festive  glow; 
But  round  his  baby-nest  he  strays, 
With  tearful  eye  the  scene  surveys, 
His  heart  unchanged  by  changing  days, — 

That 's  what  he  'd  have  you  know. 

Can  you  whose  eyes  not  yet  are  dim 
Live  o'er  the  buried  past  with  him, 

And  see  the  roses  blow 
When  white-haired  men  were  Joe  and  Jim 

'Untouched  by  winter's  snow  ? 
Or  roll  the  years  back  one  by  one 
As  Judah's  monarch  backed  the  sun, 
And  see  the  century  just  begun  ?  — 

That 's  what  he  M  like  to  know  ! 

I  come,  but  as  the  swallow  dips, 
Just  touching  with  her  feather-tips 

The  shining  wave  below, 
To  sit  with  pleasure-murmuring  lips 

And  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  Elmwood's  sparkling  Hippocrene, 
To  tread  once  more  my  native  green, 
To  sigh  unheard,  to  smile  unseen,  — 

That 's  what  I  'd  have  you  know. 

But  since  the  common  lot  I  've  shared 
(We  all  are  sitting  "  unprepared," 


314  OLD   CAMBRIDGE. 

Like  culprits  in  a  row. 
Whose  heads  are  down,  whose  necks  are  bared 

To  wait  the  headsman's  blow) 
I  'd  like  to  shift  my  task  to  you, 
By  asking- just  a  thing  or  two 
About  the  good  old  times  I  knew,  — 

Here  's  what  I  want  to  know  : 

The  yellow  meetin'  house,  —  can  you  tell 
Just  where  it  stood  before  it  fell, 

Prey  of  the  vandal  foe,  — 
Our  dear  old  temple,  loved  so  well, 

By  ruthless  hands  laid  low  ? 
Where,  tell  me,  was  the  Deacon's  pew  ? 
Whose  hair  was  braided  in  a  queue  ? 
(For  there  were  pig-tails  not  a  few,)  — 

That  's  what  I  M  like  to  know. 

The  bell,  —  can  you  recall  its  clang  ? 
And  how  the  seats  would  slam  and  bang  ? 

The  voices  high  and  low  ? 
The  basso's  trump  before  he  sang  ? 

The  viol  and  its  bow  ? 
Where  was  it  old  Judge  Winthrop  sat  ? 
Who  wore  the  last  three-cornered  hat  ? 
Was  Israel  Porter  lean  or  fat  ?  — 

That  's  what  I  'd  like  to  know. 

Tell  where  the  market  used  to  be 
That  stood  beside  the  murdered  tree  ? 
Whose  dog  to  church  would  go  ? 


OLD   CAMBRIDGE.  315 

Old  Marcus  "Reemie,  who  was  he  ? 

Who  were  the  brothers  Snow  ? 
Does  not  your  memory  slightly  fail 
About  that  great  September  gale 
Whereof  one  told  a  moving  tale, 

As  Cambridge  boys  should  know. 

When  Cambridge  was  a  simple  town, 
Say  just  when  Deacon  William  Brown 

(Last  door  in  yonder  row), 
For  honest  silver  counted  down, 

His  groceries  would  bestow  1  — 
For  those  were  days  when  money  meant 
Something  that  jingled  as  you  went,  — 
No  hybrid  like  the  nickel  cent, 

I  'd  have  you  all  to  know, 

But  quarter,  ninepence,  pistareen, 
And  fourpence  happennies  in  between, 

All  metal  fit  to  show, 
Instead  of  rags  in  stagnant  green, 

The  scum  of  debts  we  owe  ; 
How  sad  to  think  such  stuff  should  be 
Our  Wendell's  cure-all  recipe,  — 
Not  Wendell  H.,  but  Wendell  P.,  — 

The  one  you  all  must  know  ! 

I  question,  —  but  you  answer  not,  — 
Dear  me  !  and  have  I  quite  forgot 

How  fivescore  years  ago, 
Just  on  this  very  blessed  spot, 

The  summer  leaves  below, 


316  OLD    CAMBRIDGE. 

Before  his  homespun  ranks  arrayed 
In  green  New  England's  elm-bough  shade 
The  great  Virginian  drew  the  blade 
King  George  full  soon  should  know  ! 

O  George  the  Third  !  you  found  it  true 
Our  George  was  more  than  double  you, 

For  nature  made  him  so. 
Not  much  an  empire's  crown  can  do 

If  brains  are  scant  and  slow,  — 
Ah,  not  like  that  his  laurel  crown 
Whose  presence  gilded  with  renown 
Our  brave  old  Academic  town, 

As  all  her  children  know  ! 

So  here  we  meet  with  loud  acclaim 
To  tell  mankind  that  here  he  came, 

With  hearts  that  throb  and  glow  ; 
Ours  is  a  portion  of  his  fame 

Our  trumpets  needs  must  blow  ! 
On  yonder  hill  the  Lion  fell, 
But  here  was  chipped  the  eagle's  shell,  — 
That  little  hatchet  did  it  well, 

As  all  the  world  shall  know  ! 


WELCOME  TO  THE  NATIONS.      317 
WELCOME  TO  THE   NATIONS. 

PHILADELPHIA,   JULY  4,  1876. 

RIGHT  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose 
Lo  !  the  last  sun  of  our  century  sets ! 
Wreath  the  black  cannon  that  scowled 

on  our  foes, 
All  but  her  friendships  the  nation  forgets  ! 
All  bur  her  friends  and  their  welcome  forgets  ! 
These  are  around  her ;  but  where  are  her  foes  ? 
Lo,  while  the  sun  of  her  century  sets, 
Peace  with  her  garlands  of  lily  and  rose  ! 

Welcome  !  a  shout  like  the  war  trumpet's  swell 

Wakes  the  wild  echoes  that  slumber  around  ! 
Welcome  !  it  quivers  from  Liberty's  bell ; 

Welcome !  the  walls  of  her  temple  resound  ! 

Hark  !  the  gray  walls  of  her  temple  resound  ! 
Fade  the  far  voices  o'er  hillside  and  dell ; 

Welcome  !  still  whisper  the  echoes  around ; 

Welcome !  still  trembles  on  Liberty's  bell  ! 

Thrones  of  the  continents  !  isles  of  the  sea  ! 

Yours  are  the  garlands  of  peace  we  entwine  ; 
Welcome,  once  more,  to  the  land  of  the  free, 

Shadowed  alike  by  the  palm  and  the  pine ; 

Softly  they  murmur,  the  palm  and  the  pine, 
"  Hushed  is  our  strife,  in  the  land  of  the  free  "  ; 

Over  your  children  their  branches  entwine, 

Thrones  of  the  continents  !  isles  of  the  sea  ! 


318  A  FAMILIAR  LETTER. 


A  FAMILIAR   LETTER. 

TO    SEVERAL     CORRESPONDENTS. 

ES,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there 's  nothing 

like  trying ; 

Who  knows  what  a  treasure  your  cas 
ket  may  hold  ? 
I  '11  show  you  that  rhyming  *s  as  easy  as  lying 
If  you  '11  listen  to  me  while  the  art  I  unfold. 

Here  's  a  book  full  of  words ;  one  can  choose  as  he 

fancies, 

As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman  his  tool ; 
Just  think  !  all  the  poems  and  plays  and  romances 
Were  drawu   out  of  this,  like  the  rish  from  a 
pool ! 

You  can   wander  at    will  through    its    syllabled 

mazes, 
And  take   all  you  want,  —  not  a  copper  they 

cost,  — 

What  is  there  to  hinder  your  picking  out  phrases 
For  an  epic  as  clever  as  "  Paradise  Lost  "  ? 

Don't  mind  if  the  index  of  sense  is  at  zero, 

Use  words   that   run   smoothly,   whatever  they 
mean; 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER.  319 

Leander  and  Lilian  and  Lillibullero 
Are  much  the  same  thing  in  the  rhyming  ma 
chine. 

There  are  words  so  delicious  their  sweetness  will 

smother 
That    boarding  -  school   flavor  of   which  we  're 

afraid,  — 

There  is  "  lush  "  is  a  good  one,  and  "swirl  "  is  an 
other, — 
Put  both  in  one  stanza,  its  fortune  is  made. 

With  musical  murmurs  and  rhythmical  closes 
You  can  cheat  us  of  smiles  when  you've  nothing 

to  tell ; 
You  hand  us  a  nosegay  of  milliner's  roses, 

And  we  cry  with  delight,  "  0,  how  sweet  they  do 
smell ! " 

Perhaps  you  will  answer  all  needful  conditions 
For  winning  the  laurels  to  which  you  aspire, 

By  docking  the  tails  of  the  two  prepositions 

I'  the   style  o'  the    bards  you   so   greatly   ad 
mire. 

As  for  subjects  of  verse,  they  are  only  too  plenty 
For  ringing  the  changes  on  metrical  chimes  ; 

A  maiden,  a  moonbeam,  a  lover  of  twenty 

Have   rilk'd   that  great  basket  with  bushels  of 
rhymes. 


320  A  FAMILIAR  LETTER. 

Let  me  show  you  a  picture,  —  't  is  far  from  irrele 
vant,  — 

By  a  famous  old  hand  in  the  arts  of  design  ; 
'T  is  only  a  photographed  sketch  of  an  elephant, — 
The  name  of  the  draughtsman  was  Rembrandt 
of  Rhine. 

How  easy !  no  troublesome  colors  to  lay  on, 

It  can't  have  fatigued   him,  —  no,   not  in  the 

least,  — 

A  dash  here  and  there  with  a  hap-hazard  crayon, 
And  there  stands  the  wrinkled-skinned,  baggy- 
limbed  beast. 

Just  so  with  your  verse,  —  't  is  as  easy  as  sketch 
ing,  — 
You  can  reel  off  a  song  without  knitting  your 

brow, 

As  lightly  as  Rembrandt  a  drawing  or  etching ; 
It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only  know  how. 

Well  ;   imagine  }TOU  've   printed   your  volume  of 

verses  ; 
Your  forehead  is  wreathed  with  the  garland  of 

fame, 

Your  poems  the  eloquent  school-boy  rehearses, 
Her  album  the   school -girl  presents  for  your 
name ; 

Each  morning  the  post  brings  you  autograph  letters; 
You  '11  answer  them  promptly,  —  an  hour  is  n't 
much   . 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER.  321 

For  the  honor  of  sharing  a  page  with  your  betters, 
With   magistrates,    members   of    Congress,   and 
such. 

Of  course  you  're  delighted  to  serve  the  committees 
That   come  with  requests  from  the  country  all 

round 

You  would  grace  the  occasion  with  poems  and  dit 
ties 

When  they  've  got  a  new  schoolhouse,  or  poor- 
house,  or  pound. 

With  a  hymn  for  the  saints  and  a  song  for  the  sin 
ners, 

You  go  and  are  welcome  wherever  you  please  ; 
You  're  a  privileged  guest  at  all  manner  of  dinners, 
You  Ve   a    seat  on   the   platform    among   the 
grandees. 

At  length  your  mere  presence  becomes  a  sensation, 
Your  cup  of  enjoyment  is  filled  to  its  brim 

With  the  pleasure  Horatian  of  digitmonstration, 
As  the  whisper  runs  round  of  "  That 's  he !  "  or 
"  That 's  him  !  " 

But  remember,  0  dealer  in  phrases  sonorous, 
So  daintily  chosen,  so  tunefully  matched, 

Though  you  soar  with  the  wings  of  the  cherubim 
o'er  us, 

The  ovum  was  human  from  which  you  were  hatched. 
VOL.  ii.         22 


322  UNSATISFIED. 

No  will  of  your  own  with  its  puny  compulsion 
Can  summon  the  spirit  that  quickens  the  lyre; 

It  comes,  if  at  all,  like  the  Sibyl's  convulsion, 
And  touches  the  brain  with  a  finger  of  fire. 

So  perhaps,  after  all,  it  7s  as  well  to  be  quiet, 
If  you  've  nothing  you  think  is  worth  saying  in 
prose, 

As  to  furnish  a  meal  of  their  cannibal  diet 
To  the  critics,  by  publishing,  as  you  propose. 

But  it 's  all  of  no  use,  and  I  ?m  sorry  I  've  writ 
ten,  — 
I  shall  see  your  thin  volume  some  day  on  my 

shelf ; 

For  the  rhyming  tarantula  surely  has  bitten, 
And  music  must  cure  you,  so  pipe  it  yourself. 


UNSATISFIED. 

rlNLY  a  housemaid  ! "     She  looked  from 

the  kitchen, — 
Neat  was  the  kitchen  and  tidy  was 

she  ; 

There  at  her  window  a  sempstress  sat  stitching ; 
"  Were  I  a  sempstress,  how  happy  I  'd  be  !  " 

"  Only  a  Queen  ! "     She  looked  over  the  waters,  — 
Fair  was  her  kingdom  and  mighty  was  she ; 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON.        323 

There  sat  an  Empress,  with  Queens  for  her  daugh 
ters  ; 
"  Were  I  an  Empress,  how  happy  I M  be  !  " 

Still  the  old  frailty  they  all  of  them  trip  in ! 

Eve  in  her  daughters  is  ever  the  same ; 
Give  her  all  Eden,  she  sighs  for  a  pippin ; 

Give  her  an  Empire,  she  pines  for  a  name  ! 

MAY  8, 1876. 


HOW  THE  OLD   HORSE  WON  THE  BET. 

DEDICATED  BY  A  CONTRIBUTOR  TO  THE  COLLE 
GIAN,  1830,  TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  HARVARD 
ADVOCATE,  1876. 


The  betting  men  were  gathered  round 
From  far  and  near  ;  the  "  cracks  "  were 
there 


Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare  : 
The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 
The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeiffer's  brag, 
With  these  a  third  —  and  who  is  he 
That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 
Bndd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 
So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame. 
There  too  stood  many  a  noted  steed 
Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed ; 


324        HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON. 

Green  horses  also,  not  a  few  ; 
Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do  ; 
And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 
The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day  ; 

The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May ; 

The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 

On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan  ; 

The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh, 

Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play, 

And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 

Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins ; 

Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 

And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turn-out ; 

Here  stands,  —  each  youthful  Jehu's  dream,  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team  ! 

And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 

The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand  ; 

On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 

The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles ; 

(The  style  -s  the  man,  so  books  avow; 

The  style  's  the  woman,  anyhow;) 

From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 

Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 

Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 

Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these ! 

"  Come  on  !  I  '11  bet  you  two  to  one 

1  '11  make  him  do  it !  "    "  Will  you  ?    Done ! " 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON.        325 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do  ? 
I  did  not  hear  and  can't  tell  you, — 
Pray  listen  till  my  story  's  through. 

Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 

By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 

The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay 

Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay  — 

Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day ; 

(A  funeral  —  so  the  sexton  said  ; 

His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead.) 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives'  feast, 
So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast ; 
His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 
The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair  ; 
Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not 
And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 
Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town, 
Till  something  cracked  and  broke  him  down, — 
The  steed's,  the  statesman's,  common  lot ! 
1  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot  ?  '' 
Ah  me  !     I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  "  Old  Blue," 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

'  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "     Alas  !  fye  showed 
Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode ; 
Scant-maued,  sharp-backed,  and  shaky-kneed, 
The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed, 


326      now  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON. 

Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints  ; 
Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 
The  sexton  laughing  in  his  skeve, 
As  if  't  were  all  a  make-believe, 
Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 
Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a  shaft, 
Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth, 
Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  —  a  sight  to  see  ! 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 
It  can't  be  they  arc  saddling  him  ! 
It  is  !  his  back  the  pig-skin  strides 
And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth  ; 
With  horsey  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A  youngster  throws  his  leg  across, 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 
They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track, 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 
To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 

One  pitying  look  old  Hiram  cast ; 
"  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  !  " 

Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan  ; 
*  A  Fast-*Day  dinner  for  the  crows !  " 

Budd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSti  WON.        327 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 

First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam, 

With  warning  cough  and  threatening  wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees  ; 

At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 

As  if  he  dragged  a  coach  of  state  ; 

He  's  not  a  colt ;  he  knows  full  well 

That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell; 

No  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 

The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand, 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait, 
And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  like  a  stride. 

"  Go !  "  —  Through  his  ear  the  summons  stung 
As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung ; 
The  slumbering  instincts  long  unstirred 
Start  at  the  old  familiar  word ; 
It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb,  — 
What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him  ? 
The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 
Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt ; 
The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 
Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side ; 
Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 
He  steps  a  five-year-old  again  ! 


328        HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON. 

Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 

Old  Hiram  said,  "He  's  going1  fast." 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 

The  chuckling  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh  ; 

Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung 

As  in  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 

His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 

Behind  him  like  a  rat-tail  file  ! 

Off  went  a  shoe,  —  away  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 

From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  s\vear ; 

He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 

He  clutches  fiercely  for  a  mane  ; 

He  'Jl  lose  his  hold  —  he  sways  and  reels  — 

He  '11  slide  beneath  those  trampling  heels ! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake, 

The  flowers  on  many  a  bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 
"  Stick  on  !     Stick  on  !  "    "  Hould  tight  !     Honld 

tight !  " 

"  Cling  round  his  neck  and  don't  let  go  — 
"  That  pace  can't  hold  —  there  !  steady  !  whoa  !  " 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 

The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 

His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 

No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire  ; 

And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by, 

And  "  Stop  him  !  —  stop  him  !  "  is  the  cry. 


HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON.        329 

Stand  back  !  he  's  only  just  begun  — 
He  fs  having  out  three  heats  in  one  ! 
"  Don't  rush  in  front !  he  '11  smash  your  brains; 
But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  ! " 
Old  Hiram  spoke.     Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 
And  sprang  impatient  at  the  word  ; 
Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay, 
Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray, 
And  off  they  spring,  and  round  they  go, 
The  fast  ones  doing  "all  they  know." 
Look !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 
As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 
And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy ; 
Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round  ! 
They  're  tailing  off !  they  're  losing  ground  ! 
Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail ! 
Dan  Pfeiffer's  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 
And  see  !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 
Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out ; 
Now  for  the  finish  !  at  the  turn, 
The  old  horse,  —  all  the  rest  astern,  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot ; 
By  Jove  !  he 's  distanced  all  the  lot ! 

That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain  ; 
Some  said,  "  Old  Dutchman  come  again  !  " 
Some  took  his  time,  —  at  least  they  tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide; 
One  said  he  could  n't  understand 
What  happened  to  his  second  hand ; 


330    AN  APPEAL  FOR  "THE  OLD  SOUTH.' 

One  said  2.  10  ;  that  could  n't  be  — 
More  like  two  twenty  two  or  three  ; 
Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last ; 
"  The  time  was  two  —  too  dee-vel-ish  fast !  " 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet ; 
It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat ; 
Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went ; 
The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 
And  murmured,  with  a  mild  surprise 
And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 
"  That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 
Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick ; 
I  should  n't  wonder,  I  declare, 
If  brother  Murray  made  the  prayer  !  " 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 

About  the  parson's  poor  old  bay, 

The  same  that  drew  the  one-horse  shay. 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told  : 
A  horse  can  trot,  for  all  he  's  old. 


AN  APPEAL  FOR   "THE   OLD   SOUTH.' 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall." 

TILL  seven  score  years  our  city's  pride,  - 

The  comely  Southern  spire,  — 
Has  cast  its  shadow,  and  defied 
The  storm,  the  foe,  the  fire  ; 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  "THE  OLD  SOUTH."   331 

Sad  is  the  sight  our  eyes  behold ; 

Woe  to  the  three-hilled  town, 
When  through  the  laud  the  tale  is  told  — 

"  The  brave  '  Old  South '  is  down  ! " 

Let  darkness  blot  the  starless  dawn 

That  hears  our  children  tell, 
"  Here  rose  the  walls,  now  wrecked  and  gone, 

Our  fathers  loved  so  well ; 
Here,  while  his  brethren  stood  aloof, 

The  herald's  blast  was  blown 
That  shook  St.  Stephen's  pillared  roof 

And  rocked  King  George's  throne ! 

"  The  home-bound  wanderer  of  the  main 

Looked  from  his  deck  afar, 
To  where  the  gilded,  glittering  vane 

Shone  like  the  evening  star  ; 
And  pilgrim  feet  from  every  clime 

The  floor  with  reverence  trod, 
Where  holy  memories  made  sublime 
The  shrine  of  Freedom's  God  ! " 

The  darkened  skies,  alas  !  have  seen 

Our  monarch  tree  laid  low, 
And  spread  in  ruins  o'er  the  green, 

But  Nature  struck  the  blow ; 
No  scheming  thrift  its  downfall  planned, 

It  felt  no  edge  of  steel, 
No  soulless  hireling  raised  his  hand 

The  deadly  stroke  to  deal. 


332  THE  FIRST  FAN. 

In  bridal  garlands,  pale  and  mute, 

Still  pleads  the  storied  tower; 
These  are  the  blossoms,  but  the  fruit 

Awaits  the  golden  shower  ; 
The  spire  still  greets  the  morning  sun,  - 

Say,  shall  it  stand  or  fall  ? 
Help,  ere  the  spoiler  has  begun  ! 

Help,  each,  and  God  help  all ! 


THE   FIRST  FAN. 

READ  AT  A  MEETING  OF  THE    BOSTON   BRIC-A-BRAC 
CLUB,    FEBRUARY    21,    1877. 

HEN  rose  the  cry  "  Great  Pan  is  dead !  " 
And  Jove's  high  palace  closed  its  por 
tal, 

The  fallen  gods,  before  they  fled, 
Sold  out  their  frippery  to  a  mortal. 

"  To  whom  ?  "  you  ask.     I  ask  of  you. 

The  answer  hardly  needs  suggestion  ; 
Of  course  it  was  the  Wandering  Jew,  — 
How  could  you  put  me  such  a  question  7 

A  purple  robe,  a  little  worn, 

The  Thunderer  deigned  himself  to  offer , 
The  bearded  wanderer  laughed  in  scorn,  — 

You  know  he  always  was  a  scoffer. 


THE  FIRST  FAN.  333 

"  Vif  e  shillins  !  't  is  a  monstrous  price  ; 

Say  two  and  six  and  further  talk  shun." 
"  Take  it,"  cried  Jove ;  "  we  can't  be  nice,  — 

'T  would  fetch   twice  that  at  Leonard's  auc 
tion 

The  ice  was  broken ;  up  they  came, 
All  sharp  for  bargains,  god  and  goddess, 

Each  ready  with  the  price  to  name 

For  robe  or  head-dress,  scarf  or  bodice. 

First  Juno,  out  of  temper,  too,  — 

Her  queenly  forehead  somewhat  cloudy  ; 

Then  Pallas  in  her  stockings  blue, 
Imposing,  but  a  little  dowdy. 

The  scowling  queen  of  heaven  unrolled 
Before  the  Jew  a  threadbare  turban  : 
"  Three  shillings."     "  One.     'T  will  suit  some  old 
Terrific  feminine  suburban." 

But  as  for  Pallas,  —  how  to  tell 

In  seemly  phrase  a  fact  so  shocking  ? 

She  pointed,  —  pray  excuse  me,  —  well, 
She  pointed  to  her  azure  stocking. 

And  if  the  honest  truth  were  told, 

Its  heel  confessed  the  need  of  darning  ; 
"  Gods  !  "  low-bred  Vulcan  cried,  "  behold  ! 

There  !  that 's  what  comes  of  too  much  lam 
ing!" 


334  THE  FIRST  FAN. 

Pale  Proserpine  came  groping  round, 

Her  pupils  dreadfully  dilated 
With  too  much  living  underground,  — 

A  residence  quite  overrated ; 

"  This  kerchief  's  what  you  want,  I  know,  — 
Don't  cheat  poor  Venus  of  her  cestus,  — 
You  '11  find  it  handy  when  you  go 

To  —  you  know  where ;  it  's  pure  asbestus." 

Then  Phoebus  of  the  silver  bow, 

And  Hebe,  dimpled  as  a  baby, 
And  Dian  with  the  breast  of  snow, 

Chaser  and  chased,  — and  caught,  it  may  be  : 

One  took  the  quiver  from  her  back, 
One  held  the  cap  he  spent  the  night  in, 

And  one  a  bit  of  bric-a-brac, 

Such  as  the  gods  themselves  delight  in. 

Then  Mars,  the  foe  of  human  kind, 

Strode  up  and  showed  his  suit  of  armor  ; 

So  none  at  last  was  left  behind 
Save  Venus,  the  celestial  charmer. 

Poor  Venus  !     What  had  she  to  sell  ? 

For  all  she  looked  so  fresh  and  jaunty, 
Her  wardrobe,  as  I  blush  to  tell, 

Already  seemed  but  quite  too  scanty. 

Her  gems  were  sold,  her  sandals  gone,  — 
She  always  would  be  rash  and  nighty,  — 


THE  FIRST  FAN.  335 

Her  winter  garments  all  in  pawn, 
Alas  for  charming  Aphrodite  ! 

The  lady  of -a  thousand  loves, 

The  darling  of  the  old  religion, 
Had  only  left  of  all  the  doves 

That  drew  her  car  one  fan-tailed  pigeon. 

How  oft  upon  her  finger-tips 

He  perched,  afraid  of  Cupid's  arrow, 

Or  kissed  her  on  the  rosebud  lips, 

Like  Roman  Lesbia's  loving  sparrow  ! 

"  My  bird,  I  want  your  train,"  she  cried  ; 
"  Come,  don't  let 's  have  a  fuss  about  it ; 
I  '11  make  it  beauty's  pet  and  pride, 
And  you  '11  be  better  off  without  it. 

"  So  vulgar  !     Have  you  noticed,  pray, 

An  earthly  belle  or  dashing  bride  walk, 
And  how  her  flounces  track  her  way, 
Like  slimy  serpents  on  the  sidewalk  ? 

"  A  lover's  heart  it  quickly  cools ; 

In  mine  it  kindles  up  enough  rage 
To  wring  their  necks.     How  can  such  fools 
Ask  men  to  vote  for  woman  suffrage  1 " 

The  goddess  spoke,  and  gently  stripped 
Her  bird  of  every  caudal  feather  ; 

A  strand  of  gold-bright  hair  she  clipped, 
And  bonnd  the  glossy  plumes  together. 


336  THE  FIRST  FAN.       , 

And  lo,  the  Fan  !  for  beauty's  hand, 
The  lovely  queen  of  beauty  made  it ; 

The  price  she  named  was  hard  to  stand, 
But  Venus  smiled  :  the  Hebrew  paid  it 

Jove,  Juno,  Venus,  where  are  you  ? 

Mars,  Mercury,  Phoebus,  Neptune,  Saturn  ? 
But  o'er  the  world  the  Wandering  Jew 

Has  borne  the  Fan's  celestial  pattern. 

So  everywhere  we  find  the  Fan,  — 

In  lonely  isles  of  the  Pacific, 
In  farthest  China  and  Japan,  — 

Wherever  suns  are  sudorific. 

Nay,  even  the  oily  Esquimaux 

In  summer  court  its  cooling  breezes, 

In  fact,  in  every  clime  't  is  so, 
No  matter  if  it  fries  or  freezes. 

And  since  from  Aphrodite's  dove 
The  pattern  of  the  fan  was  given, 

No  wonder  that  it  breathes  of  love 

And  wafts  the  perfumed  gales  of  heaven ! 

Before  this  new  Pandora's  gift 

In  slavery  woman's  tyrant  kept  her, 

But  now  he  kneels  her  glove  to  lift,  — 
The  fan  is  mightier  than  the  sceptre. 

The  tap  it  gives  how  arch  and  sly ! 

The  breath  it  wakes  how  fresh  and  grateful! 


TO  R.  B.  H.  337 

Behind  its  shield  how  soft  the  sigh  ! 

The  whispered  tale  of  shame  how  fateful ! 

Its  empire  shadows  every  throne 

And  every  shore  that  man  is  tost  on ; 

It  rules  the  lords  of  every  zone, 
Nay,  even  the  bluest  blood  of  Boston  ! 

But  every  one  that  swings  to-night, 
Of  fairest  shape,  from  farthest  region, 

May  trace  its  pedigree  aright 
To  Aphrodite's  fan-tailed  pigeon. 


TO  E.  B.  H. 

AT  THE  DINNER  TO  THE  PRESIDENT,  BOSTON,  JUNE 

26,  1877. 


to  address  him  ?    awkward,   it  is 
true  : 
Call  him  "Great  Father,"  as  the  Red 

Men  do  ? 

Borrow  some  title  ?  this  is  not  the  place 
That    christens    men   Your   Highness   and   Your 

Grace  : 

We  tried  such  names  as  these  awhile,  you  know, 
But  left  them  off  a  century  ago. 

His  Majesty  ?     We  Ve  had  enough  of  that  : 
Besides,  that  needs  a  crown  ;  he  wears  a  hat. 
VOL.  ii.          22 


338  TO  R.  B.  H. 

What  if,  to  make  the  nicer  cars  content, 
We  say  His  Honesty,  the  President  ? 
Sir,  we  believed  you  honest,  truthful,  brave, 
When  to  your  hands  their  precious  trust  we  gave, 
And  we  have  found  you  better  than  we  knew, 
Braver,  and  not  less  honest,  not  less  true  ! 
So  every  heart  has  opened,  every  hand 
Tingles  with  welcome,  and  through  all  the  land 
All  voices  greet  you  in  one  broad  acclaim, 
Healer  of  strife !     Has  earth  a  nobler  name  ? 

What  phrases  mean  you  do  not  need  to  learn ; 

We  must  be  civil  and  they  serve  our  turn  : 

"  Your  most   obedient  humble  "    means  —  means 

what  ? 

Something  the  well-bred  signer  just  is  not. 
Yet  there  are  tokens,  sir,  you  must  believe ; 
There  is  one  language  never  can  deceive  : 
The  lover  knew  it  when  the  maiden  smiled  ; 
The  mother  knows  it  when  she  clasps  her  child  ; 
Voices  may  falter,  trembling  lips  turn  pale, 
Words  grope  and  stumble  ;  this  will  tell  their  tale 
Shorn  of  all  rhetoric,  bare  of  all  pretence, 
But  radiant,  warm,  with  Nature's  eloquence. 
Look   in    our   eyes !      Your   welcome    waits    you 

there,  — 

North,   South,  East,  West,  from   all  and  every 
where  ! 


"THE  SHIP   OF  STATE."  339 

'THE   SHIP   OF   STATE." 

A    SENTIMENT. 

Ship  of  State  !  above  her  skies  are 

blue, 

But  still  she  rocks  a  little,  it  is  true, 
And  there  are  passengers  whose  faces 

white 

Show  they  don't  feel  as  happy  as  they  might ; 
Yet  on  the  whole  her  crew  are  quite  content, 
Since  its  wild  fury  the  typhoon  has  spent, 
And  willing,  if  her  pilot  thinks  it  best, 
To  head  a  little  nearer  south  by  west. 
And  this  they  feel :  the  ship  came  too  near  wreck, 
In  the  long  quarrel  for  the  quarter-deck, 
Now  when  she  glides  serenely  on  her  way, 
—  The  shallows  past  where  dread  explosives  lay,  — 
The  stiff  obstructive's  churlish  game  to  try  : 
Let  sleeping  dogs  and  still  torpedoes  lie  ! 
And  so  I  give  you  all  the  Ship  of  State : 
Freedom's  last  venture  is  her  priceless  freight ; 
God  speed  her,  keep  her,  bless  her,  while  she  steers 
Amid  the  breakers  of  unsounded  years  ; 
Lead  her  through  danger's  paths  with  even  keel, 
And  guide  the  honest  hand  that  holds  her  wheel ! 
WOODSTOCK,  CONN.,  July  4, 1877. 


340  A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

WOODSTOCK,    CONN.,   JULY   4,    1877. 

{10 T  to  myself  this  breath  of  vesper  song-, 
Not  to  these  patient  friends,  this  kindly 

throng, 
Not  to  this  hallowed  morning,  though  it 

be 

Our  summer  Christmas,  Freedom's  jubilee, 
When  every  summit,  topmast,  steeple,  tower, 
That  owns  her  empire  spreads  her  starry  flower, 
Its  blood-streaked  leaves  in  heaven's  benignant  dew 
Washed    clean    from    every   crimson    stain    they 

knew,  — 

No,  not  to  these  the  passing  thrills  belong 
That  steal  my  breath  to  hush  themselves  with  song. 

These  moments  all  are  memory's ;  I  have  come 
To  speak  with  lips  that  rather  should  be  dumb  ; 
For  what  are  words  ?     At  every  step  I  tread 
The  dust  that  wore  the  footprints  of  the  dead 
But  for  whose  life  my  life  had  never  known 
This  faded  vesture  which  it  calls  its  own. 
Here  sleeps  my  father's  sire,  and  they  who  gave 
That  earlier  life  here  found  their  peaceful  grave. 
In  days  gone  by  I  sought  the  hallowed  ground  ; 
Climbed  yon  long  slope  ;  the  sacred  spot  I  found 
Where  all  unsullied  lies  the  winter  snow, 
Where  all  uiigathered  Spring's  pale  violets  blow, 


A   FAMILY  RECORD.  341 

And  tracked  from  stone  to  stone  the  Saxon  name 
That  marks  the  blood  I  need  not  blush  to  claim,  — 
Blood  such  as  warmed  the  Pilgrim  sons  of  toil, 
Who  held  from  God  the  charter  of  the  soil. 

I  come  an  alien  to  your  hills  and  plains, 
Yet  feel  your  birthright  tingling  in  my  veins  ; 
Mine  are  this  changing  prospect's  sun  and  shade, 
In  full-blown  summer's  bridal  pomp  arrayed ; 
Mine  these  fair  hillsides  and  the  vales  between; 
Mine  the  sweet  streams  that  lend  their  brightening 

green  ; 

I  breathed  your  air,  —  the  sunlit  landscape  smiled  ; 
I  touch  your  soil,  —  it  knows  its  children's  child  ; 
Throned  in  my  heart  your  heritage  is  mine ; 
I  claim  it  all  by  memory's  right  divine  ! 

Waking,  I  dream.     Before  my  vacant  eyes 
111  long  procession  shadowy  forms  arise ; 
Far  through  the  vista  of  the  silent  years 
I  see  a  venturous  band  ;  the  pioneers, 
Who  let  the  sunlight  through  the  forest's  gloom, 
Who  bade  the  harvest  wave,  the  garden  bloom. 
Hark  !    loud    resounds    the  bare -armed    settler's 

axe,  — 

See  where  the  stealthy  panther  left  his  tracks  ! 
As  fierce,  as  stealthy  creeps  the  skulking  foe 
With  stone-tipped  shaft  and  sinew-corded  bow ; 
Soon  shall  he  vanish  from  his  ancient  reign, 
Leave  his  last  cornfield  to  the  coming  train, 
Quit  the  green  margin  of  the  wave  he  drinks, 
For  haunts  that  hide  the  wild  cat  and  the  lynx. 


342  A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

But  who  the  Youth  his  glistening  axe  that  swings 
To  smite  the  pine  that  shows  a  hundred  rings  1 
His  features  ?  —  something  in  his  look  I  find 
That  calls  the  semblance  of  my  race  to  mind. 
His  name  ?  —  my  own  ;  and  that  which  goes  before 
The  same  that  once  the  loved  disciple  bore. 
Young,  brave,  discreet,  the  father  of  a  line 
Whose  voiceless  lives  have  found  a  voice  in  mine  ; 
Thinned  by  unnumbered  currents  though  they  be, 
Thanks  for  the  ruddy  drops  I  claim  from  thee ! 

The  seasons  pass  ;  the  roses  come  and  go ; 
Snows  fall  and  melt;  the  waters  freeze  and  flow; 
The  boys  are  men  ;  the  girls,  grown  tall  and  fair, 
Have  found   their  mates  ;   a  gravestone  here  and 

there 

Tells  where  the  fathers  lie  ;  the  silvered  hair 
Of  some  bent  patriarch  yet  recalls  the  time 
That  saw  his  feet  the  northern  hillside  climb, 
A  pilgrim  from  the  pilgrims  far  away, 
The  godly  men,  the  dwellers  by  the  bay. 
On  many  a  hearthstone  burns  the  cheerful  fire ; 
The  schoolhouse  porch,  the  heavenward  pointing 

spire 

Proclaim  in  letters  every  eye  can  read, 
Knowledge   and   Faith,   the   new    world's    simple 
creed. 

Hush  !  't  is  the  Sabbath's  silence-stricken  morn  : 
No  feet  must  wander  through  the  tasselled  corn ; 
No  merry  children  laugh  around  the  door, 
No  idle  playthings  strew  the  sanded  floor; 


A  FAMILY  RECORD.  343 

The  law  of  Moses  lays  its  awful  ban 

On  all  that  stirs  ;  here  comes  the  tithing-man  ! 

At  last  the  solemn  hour  of  worship  calls  ; 
Slowly  they  gather  in  the  sacred  walls ; 
Man  in  his  strength  and  age  with  knotted  staff, 
And  boyhood  aching  for  its  week-day  laugh, 
The  toil-worn  mother  with  the  child  she  leads, 
The  maiden,  lovely  in  her  golden  beads.  — 
The  popish  symbols  round  her  neck  she  wears, 
But  on  them  counts  her  lovers,  not  her  prayers,  — 
Those   youths    in   homespun    suits   and   ribboned 

queues, 
Whose  hearts  are  beating  in  the  highbacked  pews. 

The  pastor  rises ;  looks  along  the  seats 
With  searching  eye  ;  each  wonted  face  he  meets; 
Asks  heavenly  guidance;  finds  the  chapter's  place 
That  tells  some  tale  of  Israel's  stubborn  race  ; 
Gives  out  the  sacred  song  ;  all  voices  join, 
For  no  quartette  extorts  their  scanty  coin  ; 
Then   while   both   hands  their  blackgloved  palms 

display, 
Lifts    his    gray  head,    and    murmurs    "  Let     us 

pray  !  " 

And  pray  he  does  !   as  one  that  never  fears 
To  plead  unanswered  by  the  God  that  hears  ; 
What  if  he  dwells  on  many  a  fact  as  though 
Some  things  Heaven  knew  not  which  it  ought  to 

know,  — 

Thanks  God  for  all  His  favors  past,  and  yet, 
Tells  Him  there  's  something  He  must  not  forget; 
Such  are  the  prayers  his  people  love  to  hear,  — 
See  how  the  Deacon  slants  his  listening  ear  ! 


344  A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

What !  look  once  more  !   Nay,  surely  there  I  trace 
The  hinted  outlines  of  a  well-known  face ! 
Not  those  the  lips  for  laughter  to  beguile, 
Yet  round  their  corners  lurks  an  embryo  smile, 
The  same  on  other  lips  my  childhood  knew 
That  scarce  the  Sabbath's  mastery  could  subdue. 
Him  too  my  lineage  gives  me  leave  to  claim,  — 
The   good,   grave   man  who  bears  the  Psalmist's 
name. 

And  still  in  ceaseless  round  the  seasons  passed  ; 
Spring  piped  her  carol ;  Autumn  blew  his  blast ; 
Babes  waxed  to  manhood  ;  manhood  shrunk  to  age  ; 
Life's  worn-out  players  tottered  off  the  stage  ; 
The  few  are  many ;  boys  have  grown  to  men 
Since   Putnam  dragged  the  wolf  from  Pomfret's 

den  ; 

Our  new-old  Woodstock  is  a  thriving  town  ; 
Brave  are  her  children  ;  faithful  to  the  crown  ; 
Her  soldiers'  steel  the  savage  redskin  knows  ; 
Their  blood  has  crimsoned  his  Canadian  snows. 
And  now  once  more  along  the  quiet  vale 
Kings  the  dread  call  that  turns  the  mothers  pale  ; 
Full  well  they  know  the  valorous  heat  that  runs 
In  every  pulse-beat  of  their  loyal  sons  ; 
Who  would  not  bleed  in  good  King  George's  cause 
When  England's  lion  shows  his  teeth  and  claws  ? 

With  glittering  firelocks  on  the  village  green 
In  proud  array  a  martial  band  is  seen  ; 
You  know  what  names  those  ancient  rosters  hold,  — 
Whose  belts  were  buckled   when  the   drum-beat 

rolled,  — 


A  FAMILY  RECORD.  345 

But  mark  their  Captain  !  tell  us,  who  is  he  ? 
On  his  brown  face  that  same  old  look  I  see  ! 
Yes !  from  the  homestead's  still  retreat  he  came, 
Whose  peaceful  owner  bore  the  Psalmist's  name ; 
The  same  his  own.     Well,  Israel's  glorious  king 
Who  struck  the  harp  could  also  whirl  the  sling,  — 
Breathe  in  his  song-  a  penitential  sigh 
And  smite  the  sons  of  Amalek  hip  and  thigh  : 
These   shared  their    task ;    one  deaconed    out  the 

psalm, 

One  slashed  the  scalping  hell-hounds  of  Montcalm  ; 
The  praying  father's  pious  work  is  done, 
Now  sword  in  hand  steps  forth  the  fighting  son. 

On  many  a  field  he  fought  in  wilds  afar ; 
See  on  his  swarthy  cheek  the  bullet's  scar  ! 
There  hangs  a  murderous  tomahawk  ;  beneath, 
Without  its  blade,  a  knife's  embroidered  sheath; 
Save  for  the  stroke  his  trusty  weapon  dealt 
His  scalp  had  dangL-d  at  their  owner's  belt  ; 
But  not  for  him  such  fate  ;  he  lived  to  see 
The  bloodier  strife  that  made  our  nation  free, 
To  serve  with  willing  toil,  with  skilful  hand, 
The  war-worn  saviors  of  the  bleeding  land. 
His  wasting  life  to  others'  needs  he  gave,  — 
Sought  rest  in  home  and  found  it  in  the  grave. 
See  where  the  stones  life's  brief  memorials  keep, 
The  tablet  telling  where  he  "  fell  on  sleep,"  — 
Watched  by  a  winged  cherub's  rayless  eye, — 
A  scroll  above  that  says  we  all  must  die,  — 
Those     saddening    lines     beneath,    the     "  Nighk 

Thoughts  "  lent : 
So  stands  the  Soldier's,  Surgeon's  monument. 


346  A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

Ah  !  at  a  glance  my  filial  eye  divines 
The  scholar  son  in  those  remembered  lines. 

The  Scholar  Son.     His  hand  my  footsteps  led. 
No  more  the  dim  unreal  past  I  tread. 
O  thou  whose  breathing  form  was  once  so  dear, 
Whose  cheering  voice  was  music  to  my  ear, 
Art  thou  not  with  me  as  my  feet  pursue 
The  village  paths  so  well  thy  boyhood  knew, 
Along  the  tangled  margin  of  the  stream 
Whose  murmurs  blended  with  thine  infant  dream, 
Or  climb  the  hill,  or  thread  the  wooded  vale, 
Or  seek  the  wave  where  gleams  yon  distant  sail, 
Or  the  old  homestead's  narrowed  bounds  explore, 
Where  sloped  the  roof  that  sheds  the  rains  no  more, 
Where  one  last  relic  still  remains  to  tell 
Here  stood  thy  home,  —  the  memory-haunted  well, 
Whose  waters  quench  a  deeper  thirst  than  thine, 
Changed  at  my  lips  to  sacramental  wine,  — 
Art  thou  not  with  me,  as  I  fondly  trace 
The  scanty  records  of  thine  honored  race, 
Call  up  the  forms  that  earlier  years  have  known, 
And  spell  the  legend  of  each  slanted  stone  ? 

With  thoughts  of  thee  my  loving  verse  began, 
Not  for  the  critic's  curious  eye  to  scan, 
Not  for  the  many  listeners,  but  the  few 
Whose  fathers  trod  the  paths  my  fathers  knew ; 
Still  in  my  heart  thy  loved  remembrance  burns ; 
Still  to  my  lips  thy  cherished  name  returns  : 
Could  I  but  feel  thy  gracious  presence  near 
Amid  the  groves  that  once  to  thee  were  dear ! 


FIRST    VERSES.  347 

Could  but  my  trembling  lips  with  mortal  speech 
Thy  listening  ear  for  one  brief  moment  reach  ! 
How  vain  the  dream  !     The  pallid  voyager's  track 
No  sign  betrays;  he  sends  no  message  back. 
No  word  from  thee  since  evening's  shadow  fell 
On  thy  cold  forehead  with  my  long  farewell,  — 
Now  from  the  margin  of  the  silent  sea, 
Take  my  last  offering  ere  I  cross  to  thee  ! 


FIRST  VERSES. 

PHILLIPS    ACADEMY,    ANDOVER,    MASS.,  1824  OR 

1825. 

TRANSLATION   FROM  THE  ^ENEID,  —  BOOK   I. 

j|HE  god  looked  out  upon  the  troubled 

deep 
Waked    into    tumult    from    its    placid 

sleep  ; 

The  flame  of  anger  kindles  in  his  eye 
As  the  wild  waves  ascend  the  lowering  sky ; 
He  lifts  his  head  above  their  awful  height 
And  to  the  distant  fleet  directs  his  sight, 
Now  borne  aloft  upon  the  billow's  crest, 
Struck  by  the  bolt  or  by  the  winds  oppressed, 
And  well  he  knew  that  Juno's  vengeful  ire 
Frowned  from  those  clouds  and  sparkled  in  that 
fire. 


348  FIRST  VERSES. 

On  rapid  pinions  as  they  whistled  by 

He  calls  swift  Zephyrus  and  Eurus  nigh : 

Is  this  your  glory  in  a  noble  Hue 

To  leave  your  confines  and  to  ravage  mine  ? 

Whom  I  —  but  let  these  troubled  waves  subside  — 

Another  tempest  and  I  '11  quell  your  pride  ! 

Go  —  bear  our  message  to  your  master's  ear, 

That  wide  as  ocean  I  am  despot  here  ; 

Let  him  sit  monarch  in  his  barren  caves, 

I  wield  the  trident  and  control  the  waves  ! 

He  said,  and  as  the  gathered  vapors  break 
The  swelling  ocean  seemed  a  peaceful  lake  ; 
To  lift  their  ships  the  graceful  nymphs  essayed, 
And  the  strong  trident  lent  its  powerful  aid  ; 
The  dangerous  banks  are  sunk  beneath  the  main, 
And  the  light  chariot  skims  the  unruffled  plain. 
As  when  sedition  fires  the  public  mind, 
And  maddening  fury  leads  the  rabble  blind, 
The  blazing  torch  lights  up  the  dread  alarm, 
Rage  points  the  steel  and  fury  nerves  the  arm, 
Then,  if  some  reverend  sage  appear  in  sight, 
They  stand  —  they  gaze,  and  check  their  headlong 

flight,— 

He  turns  the  current  of  each  wandering  breast 
And  hushes  every  passion  into  rest,  — 
Thus  by  the  power  of  his  imperial  arm 
The  boiling  ocean  trembled  into  ca/m  ; 
With  flowing  reins  the  father  sped  his  way, 
And  smiled  serene  upon  rekindled  day. 


THE   IRON    GATE, 

AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


THE   IRON   GATE, 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


THE  IRON  GATE. 

READ  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  GIVEN  IN  HONOR  OF  DR. 
HOLMES'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  BY  THE  PUB 
LISHERS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY,  BOSTON, 
DECEMBER  3,  1879. 

HERE  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly 

greeting  ? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet   unknown   to   many   a   joyous 

meeting 
In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still  the  same, 

Or  changed  by  years,  forgotten  and  forgetting, 
Dull-eared,   dim-sighted,    slow    of    speech    and 
thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fretting, 
Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it  ought  ? 


352  THE  IRON  GATE. 

Old   age,   the  graybeard  !     Well,  indeed,  I  know 

him,  — 
Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,   of  aches  and   ills   the 

prey; 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 
Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest  day  : 

In  my  old  ^Esop,  toiling  with  his  bundle,  — 
His  load  of  sticks,  —  politely  asking  Death, 

Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would  he  lug  or 

trundle 
His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of  breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preacher,"  — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my  soul, 

Iii  that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out  Teacher 
Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken  bowl  ? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  Ve  known  him  at  a  distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him  here  ; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  resistance, 
And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws  near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves  us, 
Dear    to    the    heart    of    youth,   to    manhood's 

prime  ; 
Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he  leaves 

us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time  ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fragrant, 
v.  Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep, 


THE  IRON  GATE.  353 

Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  vagrant, 
Life's  flow  less  noisy,  but  the  stream  how  deep ! 

Still  as  the  silver  cord  gets  worn  and  slender, 
Its    lightened    task-work    tugs    with    lessening 

strain, 

Hands  get  more  helpful,  voices,  grown  more  tender, 
Soothe  with  their  softened  tones  the  slumberous 
brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age  remem 
bers, 

Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 
Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening  embers 

"That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till  the  last. 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 

That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows  cold, 

Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are  broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices, 
For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 

And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund  voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hopeless  cry. 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 
.From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery  sphere, 

Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubting,  dying, 
The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening  tear. 
VOL.  ii.  23 


354  THE  IRON  GATE. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 

To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our  age-dimmed 
eyes, 

And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  confusion 
The  wintry  landscape  and  the  summer  skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 
And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and  whirl, 

Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noonday  find  us, 
And  glimmering    starlight    shows  the  gates  of 
pearl. 

—  I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sadden, 
A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 

I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome  laugh. 

If  word  of  mine  another's  gloom  has  brightened, 
Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven-sent  message 
came ; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not  claim. 

But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 

These   thick-sown  snow-flakes  hint  of  toil's  re 
lease  ; 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  others 

The  tasks  once  welcome  ;  evening  asks  for  peace. 

Time  claims  his  tribute ;  silence  now  is  golden  ; 
Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering  lyre ; 


MY  AVIARY.  355 

Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 
The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents  cheerful, 

And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word  can  tell, 
In   simplest   phrase,  —  these  traitorous   eyes   are 

tearful,  — 

Thanks,  Brothers,  Sisters,  —  Children,  —  and 
farewell ! 


MY  AVIARY. 

HKOUGH  my  north  window,  in  the  win 
try  weather,  — 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore,  — 
I  watch  the   sea-fowl   as  they  flock  to 
gether 
Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 

The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  unladen, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will ; 

The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 
Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long  and  late, 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate, 


356  MY  AVIARY. 

Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts  revolving 
Whose  deeper  meaning  science  never  learns, 

Till  at  some  reverend  elder's  look  dissolving, 
The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  north-easter 
Shrieks  through  the  laboring  coaster's  shrouds 
"  Beware !  " 

The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas  feaster 
When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous  air, 

Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  rejoicing, 
Feels  heaven's  dumb  lightning  thrill  his  torpid 
nerves, 

Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage  poising, 
Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic  curves. 

Such  is  our  gull ;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 
Less  fleshed  than  feathered  ;  bagged  you  '11  find 
him  such ; 

His  virtue  silence  ;  his  employment  pleasure  ; 
Not  bad  to  look  at,  and  not  good  for  much. 

What  of  our  duck  ?  He  has  some  high-bred  cous 
ins,  — 

His  Grace  the  Canvas-back,  My  Lord  the  Brant, — 
Anas  and  Anser,  — both  served  up  by  dozens, 

At  Boston's  Rocker,  half-way  to  Nahant. 

As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriving,  — 
Grubs  up  a  living  somehow,  — what,  who  knows  ? 


MY  AVIARY.  357 

Crabs?   mussels'?  weeds'? — Look  quick!   there's 

one  just  diving  ! 

Flop  !  Splash  !  his  white  breast  glistens  —  down 
he  goes ! 

And  while  he  's  under,  —  just  about  a  minute,  — 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 
His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 

He  knows  you !  "  sportsmen  "  from  suburban  al 
leys, 

Stretched  under  seaweed  in  the  treacherous-  punt; 
Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that  sallies 

Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  he  says,  to  "  hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfaction, 

Well  pleased  to  discount  your  predestined  luck  ; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  transaction 
Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a  duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird  ;  not  easy  to  outwit  him  ! 

Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those  pin-head  eyes  ; 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit  him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he  tries. 

Look  !  there  's  a  young  one,  dreaming  not  of  dan 
ger  ; 

Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the  stream ; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless  stranger  ; 

Ah  !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they  seem ! 


358  MY  AVIARY. 

Habet  !  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has  shattered  ; 

Vainly  he  nutters,  not  again  to  rise; 
His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves  are  scat 
tered; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the  tempest  lies. 

Pie  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him  flying 
To  seek  their  nests  among  the  island  reeds  ; 

Strong  is  their  flight  ;  all  lonely  he  is  lying- 
Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as  he  bleeds. 

O  Thou  who  carest  for  the  falling  sparrow, 
Canst  Thou  the  sinless  sufferer's  pang  forget  ? 

Or  is  thy  dread  account-book's  page  so  narrow 
Its  one  long  column  scores  thy  creatures'  debt  *? 

Poor  gentle  guest,  by  nature  kindly  cherished, 
A  world  grows  dark  with  thee  in  blinding  "death ; 

One  little  gasp,  —  thy  universe  has  perished, 
Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole  thy  breath  ! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 

Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihilation,  — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give  back  our  faith,  ye  mystery-solving  lynxes  ! 

Robe  us  once  more  in  heaven-aspiring  creeds  ! 
Happier  was  dreaming  Egypt  with  her  sphynxes, 

The  stony  convent  with  its  cross  and  beads  ! 


MY  AVIARY.  359 

How  often,  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with  the  tide, 

I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 
And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl^  side, 

From  rain,  hail,  snow,  iu  feathery  mantle  muffled, 
Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keenest  sense  to 

hear 

My  mate  soft  murmuring,  who,  with  plumes  un 
ruffled, 
Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling  near  ; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment  o'er  me ; 

Space  all  unmeasured,  unrecorded  time; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on  before  me 

Thought's  pictured  train  in  wordless  pantomime. 

—  A  voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my  window  turning 
I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 

No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning,  — 
In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill. 


360  ON  THE  THRESHOLD. 


ON  THE   THRESHOLD. 

INTRODUCTION     TO   A   COLLECTION    OF    POEMS    BY 
DIFFERENT   AUTHORS. 

,N  usher  standing  at  the  door 
I  show  my  white  rosette  ; 
A  smile  of  welcome,  nothing  more, 

Will  pay  my  trifling  debt ; 
Why  should  I  bid  you  idly  wait 


Can  I  forget  the  wedding  guest  ? 

The  veteran  of  the  sea  ? 
In  vain  the  listener  smites  his  breast,  — 

"  There  was  a  ship  "  cries  he  ! 
Poor  fasting  victim,  stunned  and  pale 
He  needs  must  listen  to  the  tale. 

He  sees  the  gilded  throng  within, 
The  sparkling  goblets  gleam, 

The  music  and  the  merry  din 
Through  every  window  stream, 

But  there  he  shivers  in  the  cold 

Till  all  the  crazy  dream  is  told. 

Not  mine  the  graybeard's  glittering  eye 

That  held  his  captive  still 
To  hold  my  silent  prisoners  by 

And  let  me  have  my  will ; 


TO   GEORGE  PEABODY.  361 

Nay,  /  were  like  the  three-years'  child, 
To  think  you  could  be  so  beguiled  ! 

My  verse  is  but  the  curtain's  fold 

That  hides  the  painted  scene, 
The  mist  by  morning's  ray  unrolled 

That  veils  the  meadow's  green, 
The  cloud  that  needs  must  drift  away 
To  show  the  rose  of  opening  day. 

See,  from  the  tinkling  rill  you  hear 

In  hollowed  palm  I  bring 
These  scanty  drops,  but  ah,  how  near 

The  founts  that  heavenward  spring  ! 
Thus,  open  wide  the  gates  are  thrown 
And  founts  and  flowers  are  all  your  own ! 


TO  GEORGE  PEABODY. 

DANVERS,  1866. 

ANKKUPT !  our  pockets  inside  out ! 

Empty  of  words  to  speak  his  praises ! 
Worcester  and  Webster  up  the  spout ! 

Dead  broke  of  laudatory  phrases  ! 
Yet  why  with  flowery  speeches  tease, 
With  vain  superlatives  distress  him  ? 
Has  language  better  words  than  these  ? 

THE    FRIEND     OF     ALL     HIS     RACE,     GOD     BLESS 
HIM  ! 


362  AT  THE  PAP  YE  US   CLUB. 

A  simple  prayer  —  but  words  more  sweet 
By  human  lips  were  never  uttered, 

Since  Adam  left  the  country  seat 

Where  angel  wings  around  him  fluttered. 

The  old  look  on  with  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
The  children  cluster  to  caress  him, 

And  every  voice  unbidden  cries 

THE     FRIEND    OF    ALL     HIS     RACE,     GOD 
HIM  ! 


AT  THE  PAPYRUS  CLUB. 


LOVELY  show  for  eyes  to  see 

I  looked  upon  this  morning,  — 
A  bright-hued,  feathered  company 

Of  nature's  own  adorning  ; 
But  ah  !  those  minstrels  would  not  sing 

A  listening  ear  while  I  lent  — 
The  lark  sat  still  and  preened  his  wing  — 

The  nightingale  was  silent ; 
I  longed  for  what  they  gave  me  not  — 

Their  warblings  sweet  and  fluty, 
But  grateful  still  for  all  I  got 
I  thanked  them  for  their  beauty. 

A  fairer  vision  meets  my  view 

Of  Claras,  Margarets,  Marys, 
In  silken  robes  of  varied  hue, 

Like  bluebirds  and  canaries  — 


AT  THE  PAPYRUS   CLUB.  363 

The  roses  blush,  the  jewels  gleam, 

The  silks  and  satins  glisten, 
The  black  eyes  flash,  the  blue  eyes  beam, 

We  look,  —  and  then  we  listen  : 
Behold  the  flock  we  cage  to-night,  — 

Was  ever  such  a  capture  ? 
To  see  them  is  a  pure  delight,  — 

To  hear  them,  —  ah  !  what  rapture ! 

Me  thinks  I  hear  Delilah's  laugh 

At  Samson  bound  in  fetters  ; 
:  We  captured  !  "  shrieks  each  lovelier  half, 

"Men  think  themselves  our  betters  ! 
We  push  the  bolt,  we  turn  the  key 

On  warriors,  poets,  sages, 
Too  happy,  all  of  them,  to  be 

Locked  in  our  golden  cages  ! " 

Beware !  the  boy  with  bandaged  eyes 

Has  flung  away  his  blinder  ; 
He  's  lost  his  mother,  —  so  he  cries,  — 

And  here  he  knows  he  '11  find  her : 
The  rogue  !  't  is  but  a  new  device,  — 

Look  out  for  flying  arrows 
Whene'er  the  birds  of  Paradise 

Are  perched  amid  the  sparrows ! 


364  WHITTIERa  BIRTHDAY. 


FOR  WHITTIER'S    SEVENTIETH    BIRTH 
DAY. 

DECEMBER    17,  1877. 


BELIEVE  that  the  copies  of  verses  I've 

spun, 

Like  Scheherazade's  tales,  are  a   thou 
sand  and  one,  — 
You  remember  the  story,  —  those  mornings  in  bed, — 
'T  was  the  turn  of  a  copper,  —  a  tale  or  a  head. 

A  doom  like  Scheherazade's  falls  upon  me 
In  a  mandate  as  stern  as  the  Sultan's  decree  : 
I  'm  a  florist  in  verse,  and  what  would  people  say 
If  I  came  to  a  banquet  without  my  bouquet  ? 

It  is  trying,  no  doubt,  when  the  company  knows 
Just  the  look  and  the  smell  of  each  lily  and  rose, 
The  green  of  each  leaf  in  the  sprigs  that  I  bring, 
And  the  shape  of  the  bunch  and  the  knot  of  the 
string. 

Yes,  —  "  the  style  is  the    man,"  and    the  nib  of 

one's  pen 
Makes  the  same  mark  at  twenty,  and  three-score 

and  ten ; 

It  is  so  in  all  matters,  if  truth  may  be  told ; 
Let  one  look  at  the  cast  he  can  tell  you  the  mould. 


WH1TTIERS  BIRTHDAY.  365 

Plow  we  all  know  each  other  !  no  use  in  disguise  ; 
Through  the  holes  in  the  mask  comes  the  flash  of 

the  eyes  ; 
We  can  tell  by  his,  —  somewhat,  —  each  one  of  our 

tribe, 
As  we  know  the  old  hat  which  we  cannot  describe. 

Though  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanscrit,  in  Choctaw  you 

write, 

Sweet  singer  who  gave  us  the  Voices  of  Night, 
Though  in   buskin  or   slipper  your  song  may  be 

shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

We  shall  say  "  You  can't  cheat  us,  —  we  know  it 

is  you," 

There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there  cannot  be  two, 
Maestro,  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer  rings  : 
And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the  nightingale 

sings. 

And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 

Whose  temple  hypsethral  the  planets  shine  through, 

Let  us  catch  but  five   words   from   that   mystical 

pen, 
We  should  know  our  one  sage  from  all  children  of 

men. 

And  he  whose  bright  image  no  distance  can  dim, 
Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't  mistake  him, 
Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is  the  edge 
(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-splitting  wedge. 


366  WHITTIERS  BIRTHDAY. 

Do  you  know  whom  we  send  you,  Hidalgos  of 

Spain  ? 
Do  you  know  your  old  friends  when  you  see  them 

again  ? 

Hosea  was  Sancho  !  you  Dons  of  Madrid, 
But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of  the  Cid ! 

And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex,  — you  know  whom 

I  mean, 

Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he  sits  unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through  our  memories 

thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a  breeze  from 

the  hill, 

So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict  is  sure,  — 
Thee  cannot  elude  us,  — no  further  we  search,  — 
'T  is   Holy   George   Herbert    cut  loose   from   his 
church  ! 

We  think  it  the  voice  of  a  seraph  that  sings,  — 
Alas  !  we  remember  that  angels  have  wings,  — 
What  story  is  this  of  the  day  of  his  birth  ? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred  !  we  want  him  on  earth ! 

One  life  has  been  paid  him  (in  gold)  by  the  sun  ; 
One  account  has  been  squared  and  another  begun ; 
But  he  never  will  die  if  he  lingers  below 
Till  we  've  paid  him  in  love  half  the  balance  we 
owe  ! 


TWO  SONNETS:  HARVARD.         3G7 

TWO   SONNETS:   HARVARD.* 
"  CIIRISTO  ET  ECCLESI^."    1700. 

GOD'S     ANOINTED     AND     HIS     CHOSEN 
FLOCK  I 

So   ran    the    phrase  the   black-robed 

conclave  chose 
To  guard  the  sacred  cloisters  that  arose 

Like  David's  altar  on  Moriah's  rock. 

Unshaken  still  those  ancient  arches  mock 
The  ram's-horn  summons  of  the  windy  foes 
Who  stand  like  Joshua's  army  while  it  blows 

And  wait  to  see  them  toppling  with  the  shock. 

Christ  and  the  Church.     Their  church,  whose  nar 
row  door 

Shut  out  the  many,  who  if  over  bold 
Like  hunted  wolves  were  driven  from  the  fold, 

Bruised  with  the  flails  those  godly  zealots  bore, 
Mindful  that  Israel's  altar  stood  of  old 

Where  echoed  once  Araunah's  threshing-floor. 

1643.    "VERITAS.-     1878. 

TRUTH  :  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran, 
On  the  brief  record's  opening  page  displa}red  ; 
Not  yet  those  clear-eyed  scholars  were  afraid 

Lest  the  fair  fruit  that  wrought  the  woe  of  man 

1  At  the  meeting  of  the  New  York  Harvard  Club,  Febru 
ary  21, 1878. 


368  BOSTON  TO  FLORENCE. 

By  far  Euphrates,  —  where  our  sire  began 

His  search  for  truth,  and  seeking,  was  betrayed, — 
Might  work  new  treason  in  their  forest  shade, 

Doubling  the  curse   that  brought  life's  shortened 
span. 

Nurse  of  the  future,  daughter  of  the  past, 
That  stern  phylactery  best  becomes  thee  now : 
Lift  to  the  morning  star  thy  marble  brow  ! 

Cast  thy  brave  truth  on  every  warring  blast ! 
Stretch  thy  white  hand  to  that  forbidden  bough, 

And  let  thine  earliest  symbol  be  thy  last ! 


BOSTON  TO  FLORENCE. 

SENT  TO  "  THE  PHILOLOGICAL  CIRCLE  "  OF  FLOR 
ENCE  FOR  ITS  MEETING  IN  COMMEMORATION 
OF  DANTE.  JANUARY  27,  1881,  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  HIS  FIRST  CONDEMNATION. 

^ROUD  of  her  clustering  spires,  her  new- 
built  towers, 

Our  Venice,  stolen  from  the  slumber 
ing  sea, 

A  sister's  kindliest  greeting  wafts  to  thee, 
Rose  of  Val  d'Arno,  Queen  of  all  its  flowers  ! 
Thine  exile's  shrine  thy  sorrowing  love  embowers, 
Yet  none  with  truer  homage  bends  the  knee, 
Or  stronger  pledge  of  fealty  brings  than  we, 
Whose  poets  make  thy  dead  Immortal  ours. 


THE  COMING  ERA.  369 

Lonely  the  height,  but  ah,  to  heaven  how  near ! 
Dante,  whence  flowed  that  solemn  verse  of  thine 
Like  the  stern  river  from  its  Apennine 
Whose  name  the  far-off  Scythian  thrilled  with  fear : 
Now  to  all  lands  thy  deep-toned  voice  is  dear 
And  every  language  knows  the  Song  Divine ! 


THE   COMING  ERA. 

}  HEY  tell  us  that  the  Muse  is  soon  to  fly 

hence, 
Leaving  the  bowers  of  song  that  once 

were  dear, 

Her  robes  bequeathing  to  her  sister,  Science, 
The  groves  of  Pindus  for  the  axe  to  clear. 

Optics  will  claim  the  wandering  eye  of  fancy, 
Physics  will  grasp  imagination's  wings, 

Plain  fact  exorcise  fiction's  necromancy, 

The  workshop  hammer  where  the  minstrel  sings. 

No  more  with  laughter  at  Thalia's  frolics 

Our  eyes  shall  twinkle  till  the  tears  run  down, 

But  in  her  place  the  lecturer  on  hydraulics 
Spout  forth  his  watery  science  to  the  town. 

No  more  our  foolish  passions  and  affections 
The  tragic  Muse  with  mimic  grief  shall  try, 
VOL.  n.  24 


370  THE  COMING  ERA. 

But,  nobler  far,  a  course  of  vivisections 
Teach  what  it  costs  a  tortured  brute  to  die. 


The  unearthed  monad,  long  in  buried  rocks  hid, 
Shall  tell  the  secret  whence  our  being  came  ; 

The  chemist  show  us  death  is  life's  black  oxide, 
Left  when  the  breath  no  longer  fans  its  flame. 

Instead  of  cracked-brained  poets  in  their  attics 
Filling  thin  volumes  with  their  flowery  talk, 

There  shall  be  books  of  wholesome  mathematics  ; 
The  tutor  with  his  blackboard  and  his  chalk. 

No  longer  bards  with  madrigal  and  sonnet 

Shall  woo  to  moonlight  walks  the  ribboned  sex, 

But  side  by  side  the  beaver  and  the  bonnet 

Stroll,  calmly  pondering  on  some  problem's  x. 

The  sober  bliss  of  serious  calculation 

Shall  mock  the  trivial  joys  that  fancy  drew, 

And,  oh,  the  rapture  of  a  solved  equation,  — 
One  self-same  answer  on  the  lips  of  two  ! 

So  speak  in  solemn  tones  our  youthful  sages, 
Patient,  severe,  laborious,  slow,  exact, 

As  o'er  creation's  protoplasmic  pages 

They  browse  and  munch  the  thistle  crops  of  fact. 

And  yet  we  Ve  sometimes  found  it  rather  pleasant 
To   dream   again  the   scenes  that   Shakespeare 
drew,  — 


IN  RESPONSE.  371 

To  walk  the  hillside  with  the  Scottish  peasant 
Among  the  daisies  wet  with  morning's  dew; 

To  leave  awhile  the  daylight  of  the  real, 
Led  by  the  guidance  of  the  master's  hand, 

For  the  strange  radiance  of  the  far  ideal,  — 
"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land." 

Well,  Time  alone  can  lift  the  future's  curtain,  — 
Science  may  teach  our  children  all  she  knows, 

But  love  will  kindle  fresh  young  hearts,  't  is  cer 
tain, 
And  June  will  not  forget  her  blushing  rose. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  all  that  Time  is  bringing,  — 
Treasures  of  truth  and  miracles  of  art, 

Beauty  and  Love  will  keep  the  poet  singing, 
.And  song  still  live,  —  the  science  of  the  heart. 


IN  RESPONSE.1 

gjITCH    kindness  !    the  scowl  of    a   cynic 

would  soften, 
His  pulse  beat  its  way  to  some  eloquent 

word,  — 

Alas  !  my  poor  accents  have  echoed  too  often, 
Like  that  Pinafore  music  you  Ve  some  of  you 

heard. 
1  Breakfast  at  the  Century  Club,  New  York,  May,  1879. 


372  IN  RESPONSE. 

Do  you  know  me,  dear  strangers,  —  the  hundredth- 
time  comer 
At  banquets  and  feasts  since  the  days  of  my 

Spring  ? 

Ah !  would  I  could  borrow  one  rose  of  my  Sum 
mer., 
But  this  is  a  leaf  of  my  Autumn  I  bring. 

I  look  at  your  faces,  —  I'm  sure  there  are  some 

from 

The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as  my  own ; 
You  think  you  remember  the  place  you  have  come 

from, 

But  how  it  has  changed  in  the  years  that  have 
flown ! 

Unaltered,  't  is  true,  is  the  hall  we  call  "  Funnel ; " 
Still  fights  the  "Old  South"  in  the  battle  for 

life, 
But  we  Ve  opened  our  door  to  the  West  through 

the  tunnel, 

And  we  've  cut  off  Fort  Hill  with  our  Amazon 
knife. 

You  should  see  the  new  Westminster  Boston  has 

builded,  — 

Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums  of  arts,  — 
You  should  see  the  great  dome  we  have  gorgeously 

gilded,  — 

;T  is  the  light  of  our  eyes,  't  is  the  joy  of  our 
hearts  ! 


IN  RESPONSE.  373 

When  first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid  found  it, 
As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with  the  stars  in 

his  wake, 
He  thought  'twas  the  sun,  and  kept  circling  around 

it 
Till  Edison  signalled,  "  You  've  made  a  mistake." 

We  are  proud  of  our  city,  —  her  fast-growing  fig 
ure,  — 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  her  brain  and  her 

hands,  — 
But  we  're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart  has  grown 

bigger, 

And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her  girdle  ex 
pands. 

One  lesson  the  rubric  of  conflict  has  taught  her: 
Though  parted  awhile  by  war's  earth-rending 
shock, 

The  lines  that  divide  us  are  written  in  water, 
The  love  that  unites  us  cut  deep  in  the  rock. 

As  well  might  the  Judas  of  treason  endeavor 
To  write  his  black  name  on  the  disk  of  the  sun 

As  try  the  bright  star-wreath  that  binds  us  to  sever 
And  blot  the  fair  legend  of  "  Many  in  One." 

We  love  YOU,  tall  sister,  the  stately,  the  splendid,  — 
The  banner  of  empire  floats  high  on  your  towers, 

Yet  ever  in  welcome  your  arms  are  extended,  — 
We  share  in  your  splendors,  your  glory  is  ours. 


374  POST  PRANDIAL. 

Yes,   Queen  of  the   Continent!     All  of  us   own 

thee,  — 

The  gold-freighted  argosies  flock  at  thy  call,  — 
The  naiads,  the  sea-nymphs  have  met  to  enthrone 

thee, 
But  the  Broadway  of  one  is  the  Highway  of  all ! 

—  I  thank  you.     Three  words  that  can  hardly  be 

mended, 

Though  phrases  on  phrases  their  eloquence  pile, 
If  you  hear  the  heart's  throb  with  their  syllables 

blended, 
And  read  all  they  mean  in  a  sunshiny  smile. 


POST  PKANDIAL. 

PHI    BETA   KAPPA.       1881. 

j|HE  Dutch  have  taken  Holland,"  —  so  the 

schoolboys  used  to  say,  — 
The  Dutch  have   taken   Harvard,  —  no 

doubt  of  that  to-day  ! 
For  the  Wendells  were  low  Dutchmen,  and  all  their 

vrows  were  Vans 

And  the  Breitinauns  are  high  Dutchmen,  and  here 
is  honest  Hans. 

Mynheers,  you   both  are  welcome  !      Fair   cousin 

Wendell  P., 
Our  ancestors  were  dwellers  beside  the  Zuyder  Zee,; 


POST  PRANDIAL.  375 

Both  Grotius  and   Erasmus  were   countrymen  of 

we, 
And  Vondcl  was  our  namesake  though  he  spelt  it 

with  a  V. 

It  was  well  old  Evart  Jansen  sought   a  dwelling 

over  sea 
On  the  margin  of  the  Hudson,  where  he  sampled 

you  and  me 
Through  our  grandsires  and  great  grandsires,  for 

you  would  n't  quite  agree 
With  the  steady-going  burghers  along  the  Zuyder 

Zee. 

Like  our  Motley's  John  of  Barneveldt,  you  have 
always  been  inclined 

To  speak,  —  well,  —  somewhat  frankly,  —  to  let  us 
know  your  mind, 

And  the  Mynheers  would  have  told  you  to  be  cau 
tious  what  you  said, 

Or  else  that  silver  tongue  of  yours  might  cost  your 
precious  head. 

But  we  're  very  glad  you  've  kept  it ;  it  was  always 

Freedom's  own, 
And  whenever  Reason  chose  it  she  found  a  royal 

throne ; 
You  have  whacked  us  with  your  sceptre  ;  our  backs 

were  little  harmed, 
And  while  we  rubbed  our  bruises  we  owned  we  had 

been  charmed. 


376      FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL. 

And  you,  our  quasi  Dutchman,  what  welcome 
should  be  yours 

For  all  the  wise  prescriptions  that  work  your  laugh 
ter-cures  ? 

"  Shake  before  taking  ? "  —  not  a  bit,  —  the  bottle- 
cure 's  a  sham, — 

Take  before  shaking,  and  you  '11  find  it  shakes  your 
diaphragm. 

"Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty,  —  vhere  is  dat  barty 

now  ? " 
On  every  shelf  where  wit  is  stored  to  smooth  the 

careworn  brow ! 
A  health  to  stout   Hans   Breitmann !     How  long 

before  we  see 
Another  Hans  as  handsome,  —  as  bright  a  man  as 

he! 


FOR    THE    MOORE    CENTENNIAL    CELE 
BRATION. 

MAT  28,  1879. 


JjNCHANTER  of  Erin,  whose  magic  has 

bound  us, 
Thy  wand  for  one  moment  we  fondly 

would  claim, 
Entranced  while  it  summons  the  phantoms  around 

us 
That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of  thy  name. 


FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL.      377 

The  tell-tales  of  memory  wake  from  their  slum 
bers,  — 

I  hear  the  old  song  with  its  tender  refrain,  — 
What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey-voiced  num 
bers  ! 
What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  exquisite  strain ! 

The    home   of    my   childhood   comes   back   as   a 

vision,  — 

Hark  !    Hark !     A  soft  chord   from    its   song- 
haunted  room,  — 
'T  is  a  morning  of    May,  when  the  air  is  Ely- 

sian,  — 
The  syringa  in  bud  and  the  lilac  in  bloom,  — 

We  are  clustered  around  the  "  Clement! "  piano,  — 
There  were  six  of  us  then,  —  there  are  two  of 

us  now,  — 

She  is  singing,  —  the  girl  with  the  silver  soprano,  — 
How  "  The  Lord  of  the  Valley  "  was  false  to  his 
vow  : 

"  Let  Erin  remember  "  the  echoes  are  calling  : 
Through  "The  Vale  of  Avoca"  the  waters  are 

rolled : 
"  The  Exile "   laments  while  the  night-dews  are 

falling : 
"  The  Morning  of  Life  "  dawns  again  as  of  old. 

But  ah  !  those   warm   love-songs  of  fresh   adoles 
cence  ! 
Around  us  such  raptures  celestial  they  flung 


378       FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL. 

That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed  its  quintes 
sence 

Through  the  seraph-toned  lips  of  the   maiden 
that  sung  ! 

Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my  boyhood  en 
chanted 
As  when  the   smooth   wave  by  the  angel   was 

.    stirred, 

Yet  still  with  their  music  is  memory  haunted 
And  oft  in  my  dreams  are  their  melodies  heard. 

I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  returning,  — 
The  crowd  that  was  kneeling  no  longer  is  there, 

The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  brands  are  still 

burning, 
And  sandal  and  cinnamon  sweeten  the  air. 


The  veil  for  her  bridal  young  Summer  is  weaving 

In  her  azure-domed  hall  with  its  tapestried  floor, 
And  Spring  the  last  tear-drops  of  May-dew  is  leav 
ing 

On   the   daisy  of   Burns   and  the  shamrock  of 
Moore. 

How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them  together, 
The  song   of  the    minstrels  whose    record   we 
scan,  — 

One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over  the  heather,  — 
One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  an  odalisque's  fan  ! 


FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL.      379 

Ah,  passion  can  glow  mid  a  palace's  splendor ; 

The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of  the  bird, 
And   the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whispers   as 
tender 

As  ever  the  blossoming  hawthorn  has  heard. 

No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered  Graces 
Should  fright  the  young  Loves  from  their  warm 

little  nest, 

For  the  heart  of  a  queen,  under  jewels  and  laces. 
Beats  time  with  the  pulse  in  the  peasant  girl's 
breast ! 

Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  Nature's  bestow 
ing! 

Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet  we  hold  ; 
Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flowing, 

The  shell  from  the  seaside,  the  chalice  of  gold. 

The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had  listened  ; 

Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liberty's  shrine ; 
For  Coila's  loved  minstrel  the  holly -wreath  glist 
ened  ; 

For  Erin's  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  entwine. 

And  while  the   fresh    blossoms   of    summer  are 

braided 
For  the  sea-girdled,  stream-silvered,  lake-jewelled 

isle, 

While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven  unfaded, 
While    Shannon   and    Liffey  shall   dimple  and 
smile, 


"880       TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

The  laud  where  the  staff  of   Saint   Patrick  was 

planted, 
Where  the  shamrock  grows  green  from  the  cliffs 

to  the  shore, 

The  land  of  fair  maidens  and  heroes  undaunted, 
Shall  wreathe  her  bright  harp  with  the  garlands 
of  Moore  ! 


TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 
APRIL  4,  1880. 


BRING  the  simplest  pledge  of  love, 
Friend  of  my  earlier  days  ; 

Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 
The  heart-heat,  not  the  phrase. 


How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 

We  called  by  schoolboy  names  ! 
You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 

To  me  are  always  James. 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 

Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds, 
Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 

And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What  blending  thoughts  our  memories  share ! 
What  visions  yours  and  mine 


TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE.      381 

Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 
The  dews  were  golden  wine, 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day, 

Whose  all-awakening  sun 
Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 

The  summits  to  be  won  ! 

The  heights  are  gained.  —  Ah,  say  not  so 

For  him  who  smiles  at  time, 
Leaves  his  tired  comrades  down  below, 

And  only  lives  to  climb  ! 

His  labors,  —  will  they  ever  cease,  — 
With  hand  and  tongue  and  pen  ? 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Our  strength  the  clustered  seasons  tax,  — 

For  him  new  life  they  mean  ; 
Like  rods  around  the  lictor's  axe 

They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,  the  strong,  we  know,  — 

We  mark  them  here  or  there, 
But  he,  —  we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 

We  find  him  everywhere  ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
He  strides  through  error's  field  ; 


382     THE  CHICAGO  COMMERCIAL  CLUB. 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 


Count  not  his  years  while  earth  has  need 
Of  souls  that  Heaven  inflames 

With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead,  — 
Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James  ! 


WELCOME  TO   THE  CHICAGO  COMMER 
CIAL  CLUB. 

JANUARY    14,    1880. 

THICAGO   sounds  rough  to  the   maker 

of  verse ; 
One    comfort    we    have  —  Cincinnati 

sounds  worse ; 
If  we  only  were  licensed  to  say  Chicago  ! 
But  Worcester    and   Webster  won't  let  us,   you 
know. 

No  matter,  we  songsters  must  sing  as  we  can ; 
We  can  make  some  nice  couplets  with  Lake  Michi 
gan, 

And  what  more  resembles  a  nightingale's  voice, 
Than  the  oily  trisyllable,  sweet  Illinois  ? 

Your  waters  are  fresh,  while  our  harbor  is  salt, 
But  we  know  you  can't  help  it  —  it  is  n't  your 
fault  ; 


THE  CHICAGO  COMMERCIAL  CLUB.     383 

Our  city  is  old  and  your  city  is  new, 

But  the  railroad  men  tell  us  we  're  greener  than  you. 

You  have  seen  our  gilt  dome,  and  no  doubt  you  'vc 

been  told 

That  the  orbs  of  the  universe  round  it  are  rolled  ; 
But  I  '11  own  it  to  you,  and  I  ought  to  know  best, 
That  this  is  n't  quite  true  of  all  stars  of  the  West. 

You  '11  go  to  Mount    Auburn,  —  we  '11  show  you 

the  track,  — 
And  can   stay  there,  —  unless  you  prefer  to  come 

back  ; 
And  Bunker's  tall  shaft  you  can  climb  if  you 

will, 
But  you  '11  puff  like  a  paragraph  praising  a  pill. 

You  must  see  —  but  you  have  seen  —  our  old  Fan- 

euil  Hall, 
Our  churches,  our  school-rooms,  our  sample-rooms, 

all  ; 
And,  perhaps,  though  the  idiots  must  have  their 

jokes, 
You  have  found  our  good  people  much  like  other 

folks. 

There  are  cities  by  rivers,  by  lakes  and  by  seas, 
Each  as  full  of  itself  as  a  cheese-mite  of  cheese; 
And  a  city  will  brag  as  a  game-cock  will  crow  : 
Don't  your  cockerels  at  home, — just  a  little,  you 
know  ? 


384     AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL. 

But  we  '11  crow  for  you  now,  —  here  's  a  health  to 

the  boys, 

Men,  maidens,  and  matrons  of  fair  Illinois, 
And   the  rainbow-   of    friendship  that   arches   its 

span 
From  the  green  of  the  sea  to  the  blue  Michigan ! 


AMERICAN    ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION. 

MAY  26,  1880. 

,  son,  and  grandson ;  so  the  century 

glides, 

Three  lives,  three  strides,  three  foot 
prints  in  the  sand,  — 
Silent  as  midnight's  falling  meteor  slides,  — 
Into  the  stillness  of  the  far-off  land ; 
How  dim  the  space  its  little  arc  has  spanned ! 

See  on  this  opening  page  the  names  renowned 
Tombed  in  these  records  on  our  dusty  shelves, 

Scarce  on  the  scroll  of  living  memory  found, 
Save  where  the  wan-eyed  antiquarian  delves  ; 
Shadows   they    seem;    ah,   what    are  we    our 
selves  ? 

Pale  ghosts  of  Bowdoin,  Winthrop,  Willard,  West, 
Sages  of  busy  brain  and  wrinkled  brow, 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL.      385 

Searchers  of  Nature's  secrets  uuconfessed, 
Asking  of  all  things  Whence  and  Why  and 

How,  — 
What  problems  meet  your  larger  vision  now  ? 

Has  Gannett  tracked  the  wild  Aurora's  path  ? 
Has  Bowdoin  found  his  all-surrounding  sphere  ? 

What  question  puzzles  ciphering  Philomath  1 
Could  Williams  make  the  hidden  causes  clear 
Of  the  Dark  Day  that  filled  the  land  with  fear  ? 

Dear  ancient  schoolboys  !    Nature  taught  to  them 
The  simple  lessons  of  the  star  and  flower, 

Showed  them  strange  sights;    how  on    a    single 

stem,  — 

Admire  the  marvels  of  Creative  Power  !  — 
Twin  apples  grew,  one  sweet,  the  other  sour ; 

How  from  the  hill-top  where  our  eyes  behold 
In  even  ranks  the  plumed  and  bannered  maize 

Range  its  long  columns,  in  the  days  of  old 
The  live  volcano  shot  its  angry  blaze,  — 
Dead  since  the  showers  of  Noah's  watery  clays  ; 

How,  when  the  lightning  split  the  mighty  rock, 

The  spreading  fury  of  the  shaft  was  spent ; 
How  the  young  scion  joined  the  alien  stock, 

And  when   and  where   the  homeless   swallows 
went 

To  pass  the  winter  of  their  discontent. 

VOL.  n.          25 


386     AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL. 

Scant  were  the  gleanings  in  those  years  of  dearth  ; 

No  Cuvier  yet  had  clothed  the  fossil  hones 
That  slumbered,  waiting  for  their  second  birth ; 

No  Lycll  read  the  legend  of  the  stones  ; 

Science  still  pointed  to  her  empty  thrones. 

Dreaming  of  orbs  to  eyes  of  earth  unknown, 

Herschel  looked  heavenwards  in  the  starlight 

pale  ; 

Lost  in  those  awful  depths  he  trod  alone, 
Laplace  stood  mute  before  the  lifted  veil ; 
While    home-bred   Humboldt   trimmed  his  toy 
ship's  sail. 

No  mortal  feet  these  loftier  heights  had  gained 
Whence  the  wide  realms  of  Nature  we  descry ; 

In  vain  their  eyes  our  longing  fathers  strained 
To    scan    with    wondering   gaze    the    summits 

high 
That  far  beneath  their  children's  footpaths  lie. 

Smile  at  their  first  small  ventures  as  we  may, 

The  schoolboy's  copy  shapes  the  scholar's  hand ; 
Their  grateful  memory  fills  our  hearts  to-day ; 
Brave,  hopeful,  wise,  this  bower  of  peace  they 

planned, 

While  war's  dread  ploughshare  scarred  the  suffer 
ing  land. 

Child  of  our  children's  children  yet  unborn, 
When  on  this  yellow  page  you  turn  your  eyes, 


0 UR  HOME.  —  OUR  CO UNTR Y.        387 

Where  the  brief  record  of  this  May-day  mom 
In  phrase  antique  and  faded  letters  lies, 
How  vague,  how  pale  our  flitting  ghosts  will  rise  ! 

Yet  in  our  veins  the  b^ood  ran  warm  and  red, 

For  us  the  fields  were  green,  the  skies  were  blue, 
Though  from  our  dust  the  spirit  long  has  fled, 
We  lived,  we  loved,  we  toiled,  we  dreamed  like 

you, 

Smiled  at  our  sires  and  thought  how  much  we 
knew. 

Oh  might  our  spirits  for  one  hour  return, 

When   the   next  century   rounds  its   hundredth 
ring, 

All  the  strange  secrets  it  shall  teach  to  learn, 
To  hear  the  larger  truths  its  years  shall  bring, 
Its  wiser  sages  talk,  its  sweeter  minstrels  sing ! 


OUR  HOME. —  OUR  COUNTRY. 

FOR  THE  SEMI-CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
SETTLEMENT  OF    CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  DECEMBER 

28,  1880. 

OUR  home  was  mine,  —  kind  Nature's 

gift; 

My  love  no  years  can  chill ; 
In  vain  their  flakes  the  storm-winds  sift, 


388        OUR  HOME. —  OUR  COUNTRY. 

The  snow- drop  hides  beneath  the  drift, 
A  living  blossom  still. 

Mute  are  a  hundred  long-famed  lyres, 

Hushed  all  their  golden  strings  ; 
One  lay  the  coldest  bosom  fires, 
One  song,  one  only,  never  tires 
While  sweet-voiced  memory  sings. 

No  spot  so  lone  but  echo  knows 

That  dear  familiar  strain  ; 
In  tropic  isles,  on  arctic  snows, 
Through  burning  lips  its  music  flows 

And  rings  its  fond  refrain. 

From  Pisa's  tower  my  straining  sight 

Roamed  wandering  leagues  away, 
When  lo  !  a  frigate's  banner  bright, 
The  starry  blue,  the  red,  the  white, 
In  far  Livorno's  bay. 

Hot  leaps  the  life-blood  from  my  heart, 

Forth  springs  the  sudden  tear ; 
The  ship  that  rocks  by  yonder  mart 
Is  of  my  land,  my  life,  a  part, — 
Home,  home,  sweet  home,  is  here ! 

Fades  from  my  view  the  sunlit  scene,  — 

My  vision  spans  the  waves ; 
I  see  the  elm-encircled  green, 
The  tower,  —  the  steeple,  —  and  between, 

The  field  of  ancient  graves. 


0 UR  HOME.  —  OUR  CO UNTR Y.        389 

There  runs  the  path  my  feet  would  tread 
When  first  they  learned  to  stray  ; 

There  stands  the  gainbrel  roof  that  spread 

Its  quaint  old  angles  o'er  my  head 
When  first  I  saw  the  day. 

The  sounds  that  met  my  boyish  ear 

My  in  ward  sense  salute,  — 
The  woodnotes  wild  I  loved  to  hear, — 
The  robin's  challenge,  sharp  and  clear,  — 

The  breath  of  evening's  flute. 

The  faces  loved  from  cradle  days,  — 

Unseen,  alas,  how  long  ! 
As  fond  remembrance  round  them  plays, 
Touched  with  its  softening  moonlight  rays, 

Through  fancy's  portal  throng. 

And  see  !  as  if  the  opening  skies 

Some  angel  form  had  spared 
Us  wingless  mortals  to  surprise, 
The  little  maid  with  light-blue  eyes, 

White  necked  and  golden  haired  ! 


So  rose  the  picture  full  in  view 

I  paint  in  feebler  song  ; 
Such  power  the  seamless  banner  knew 
Of  red  and  white  and  starry  blue 

.For  exiles  banished  long. 


390        MEDICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER. 

0  boys,  dear  boys,  who  wait  as  men 
To  guard  its  heaven-bright  folds, 
Blest  are  the  eyes  that  see  again 
That  banner,  seamless  now,  as  then,  — 
The  fairest  earth  beholds  ! 

Sweet  was  the  Tuscan  air  and  soft 

In  that  unfading  hour, 
And  fancy  leads  my  footsteps  oft 
Up  the  round  galleries,  high  aloft 

On  Pisa's  threatening  tower. 

And  still  in  Memory's  holiest  shrine 

I  read  with  pride  and  joy, 
"  For  me  those  stars  of  empire  shine ; 

That  empire's  dearest  home  is  mine ; 
I  am  a  Cambridge  boy  !  " 


POEM 

AT    THE     CENTENNIAL     ANNIVERSARY   DINNER    OF 
THE    MASSACHUSETTS    MEDICAL   SOCIETY,   JUNE 

8,  1881. 

j|HREE  paths  there  be  where  Learning's 

favored  sons, 
Trained  in  the  schools  which  hold  her 

favored  ones, 
Follow  their  several  stars  with  separate  aim ; 
Each  has  its  honors,  each  its  special  claim. 


MEDICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER.        391 

Bred  in  the  fruitful  cradle  of  the  East, 
First,  as  of  oldest  lineage,  comes  the  Priest ; 
The  Lawyer  next,  in  wordy  conflict  strong, 
Full  armed  to  battle  for  the  right,  —  or  wrong  ; 
Last,  he  whose  calling  finds  its  voice  in  deeds, 
Frail  Nature's  helper  in  her  sharpest  needs. 

Each  has  his  gifts,  his  losses  and  his  gains, 
Each  his  own  share  of  pleasures  and  of  pains  ; 
No  life-long  aim  witli  steadfast  eye  pursued 
Finds  a  smooth  pathway  all  with  roses  strewed  ; 
Trouble  belongs  to  man  of  woman  born,  — 
Tread  where  lie  may,  his  foot  will  find  its  thorn. 

Of  all  the  guests  at  life's  perennial  feast, 
Who  of  her  children  sits  above  the  Priest  ? 
For  him  the  broidered  robe,  the  carven  seat, 
Pride  at  his  beck,  and  beauty  at  his  feet, 
For  him  the  incense  fumes,  the  wine  is  poured, 
Himself  a  God,  adoring  and  adored  ! 
His  the  first  welcome  when  our  hearts  rejoice, 
His  in  our  dying  ear  the  latest  voice, 
Font,  altar,  grave,  his  steps  on  all  attend, 
Our  staff,  our  stay,  our  all  but  Heavenly  friend ! 

Where  is  the  meddling  hand  that  dares  to  probe 
The  secret  grief  beneath  his  sable  robe  ? 
How  grave  his  port !  how  every  gesture  tells 
Here  truth  abides,  here  peace  forever  dwells  ; 
Vex  not  his  lofty  soul  with  comments  vain  ; 
Faith  asks  no  questions  ;  silence,  ye  profane  ! 

Alas  !  too  oft  while  all  is  calm  without 
The  stormy  spirit  wars  with  endless  doubt; 


392        MEDICAL   SOCIETY  DINNER. 

This  is  the  mocking  spectre,  scarce  concealed 

Behind  tradition's  bruised  and  battered  shield. 

He  sees  the  sleepless  critic,  age  by  age, 

Scrawl  his  new  readings  on  the  hallowed  page, 

The  wondrous  deeds  that  priests  and  prophets  saw 

Dissolved  in  legend,  crystallized  in  law, 

And  on  the  soil  where  saints  and  martyrs  trod 

Altars  new  builded  to  the  Unknown  God  ; 

His  shrines  imperilled,  his  evangels  torn,  — 

He  dares  not  limp,  but  ah !  how  sharp  his  thorn  ! 

Yet  while  God's  herald  questions  as  he  reads 
The  outworn  dogmas  of  his  ancient  creeds, 
Drops  from  his  ritual  the  exploded  verse, 
Blots  from  its  page  the  Athanasian  curse, 
Though  by  the  critic's  dangerous  art  perplexed, 
His  holy  life  is  Heaven's  unquestioned  text ; 
That  shining  guidance  doubt  can  never  mar,  — 
The  pillar's  flame,  the  light  of  Bethlehem's  star ! 

Strong  is  the  moral  blister  that  will  draw 
Laid  on  the  conscience  of  the  Man  of  Law 
Whom  blindfold  Justice  lends  her  eyes  to  see 
Truth  in  the  scale  that  holds  his  promised  fee. 
What !     Has  not  every  lie  its  truthful  side, 
Its  honest  fraction,  not  to  be  denied  ? 
Per  contra,  —  ask  the  moralist,  —  in  sooth 
Has  not  a  lie  its  share  in  every  truth  ? 
Then  what  forbids  an  honest  man  to  try 
To  find  the  truth  that  lurks  in  every  lie, 
And  just  as  fairly  call  on  truth  to  yield 
The  lying  fraction  in  its  breast  concealed  ? 


MEDICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER.        393 

So  the  worst  rogue  shall  claim  a  ready  friend 
His  modest  virtues  boldly  to  defend, 
And  he  who  shows  the  record  of  a  saint 
See  himself  blacker  than  the  devil  could  paint. 

What  struggles  to  his  captive  soul  belong 
Who  loves  the  right,  yet  combats  for  the  wrong, 
Who  fights  the  battle  he  would  fain  refuse 
And  wins,  well  knowing  that  he  ought  to  lose, 
Who  speaks  with  glowing  lips  and  look  sincere 
In  spangled  words  that  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason  ;  who,  behind  his  mask 
Hides  his  true  self  and  blushes  at  his  task,  — 
What  quips,  what  quillets  cheat  the  inward  scorn 
That  mocks  such  triumph  ?    Has  he  not  his  thorn  ? 

Yet  stay  thy  judgment ;  were  thy  life  the  prize, 
Thy  death  the  forfeit,  would  thy  cynic  eyes 
See  fault  in  him  who  bravely  dares  defend 
The  cause  forlorn,  the  wretch  without  a  friend  ? 
Kay,  though  the  rightful  side  is  wisdom's  choice 
Wrong   has   its   rights   and   claims   a  champion's 

voice  ; 

Let  the  strong  arm  be  lifted  for  the  weak, 
For  the  dumb  lips  the  fluent  pleader  speak  ;  — 
When  with  warm  "rebel"  blood  our  street  was 

dyed 

Who  took,  unawed,  the  hated  hirelings'  side  ? 
No  greener  civic  wreath  can  Adams  claim, 
No  brighter  page  the  youthful  Quincy's  name  ! 

How  blest  is  he  who  knows  no  meaner  strife 
Than  Art's  long  battle  with  the  fpes  of  life ! 


394        MEDICAL   SOCIETY  DINNER. 

No  doubt  assails  him,  doing  still  his  best, 
And  trusting  kindly  Nature  for  the  rest; 
No  mocking  conscience  tears  the  thin  disguise 
That  wraps  his  breast,  and  tells  him  that  he  lies. 
He  comes  ;  the  languid  sufferer  lifts  his  head 
And  smiles  a  welcome  from  his  weary  bed  ; 
He  speaks  :  what  music  like  the  tones  that  tell 
"  Past  is  the  hour  of  danger,  —  all  is  well  !  " 
How  can  he  feel  the  petty  stings  of  grief 
Whose  cheering  presence  always  brings  relief  ? 
What  ugly  dreams  can  trouble  his  repose 
Who  yields  himself  to  soothe  another's  woes  ? 

Hour  after  hour  the  busy  day  has  found 
The  good  physician  on  his  lonely  round  ; 
Mansion  and  hovel,  low  and  lofty  door, 
He  knows,  his  journeys  every  path  explore,  — 
Where  the  cold  blast  has  struck  with  deadly  chill 
The  sturdy  dweller  on  the  storm-swept  hill, 
Where  by  the  stagnant  marsh  the  sickening  gale 
Has  blanched  the  poisoned  tenants  of  the  vale, 
Where  crushed   and  maimed  the  bleeding  victim 

lies, 

Where  madness  raves,  where  melancholy  sighs, 
And  where  the  solemn  whisper  tells  too  plain 
That  all  his  science,  all  his  art,  were  vain. 

How  sweet  his  fireside  when  the  day  is  done 
And  cares  have  vanished  with  the  setting  sun  ! 
Evening  at  last  its  hour  of  respite  brings 
And  on  his  couch  his  weary  length  he  flings. 
Soft  be  thy  pillow,  servant  of  mankind, 
Lulled  by  an  opiate  Art  could  never  find; 


MEDICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER.        395 

Sweet    be   thy   slumber,  —  thou    hast    earned    it 

well,  — 
Pleasant  thy  dreams  !     Clang  !  goes  the  midnight 

bell  ! 

Darkness  and  storm !  the  home  is  far  away 
That  waits  his  coming  ere  the  break  of  day  ; 
The  snow-clad  pines  their  wintry  plumage  toss,  — 
Doubtful  the  frozen  stream  his  road  must  cross ; 
Deep  lie  the  drifts,  the  slanted  heaps  have  shut 
The  hardy  woodman  in  his  mountain  hut,  — 
Why  should  thy  softer  frame  the  tempest  brave  ? 
Hast  thou  no  life,  no  health,  to  lose  or  save  ? 
Look !  read  the  answer  in  his  patient  eyes,  — 
For  him  no  other  voice  when  suffering  cries  ; 
Deaf  to  the  gale  that  all  around  him  blows, 
A  feeble  whisper  calls  him,  —  and  he  goes. 

Or  seek  the  crowded  city,  —  summer's  heat 
Glares  burning,  blinding,  in  the  narrow  street, 
Still,  noisome,  deadly,  sleeps  the  envenomed  air, 
Unstirred  the  yellow  flag  that  says  "  Beware  ! " 
Tempt  not  thy  fate,  —  one  little  moment's  breath 
Bears  on  its  viewless  wing  the  seeds  of  death ; 
Thou  at  whose  door  the  gilded  chariots  stand, 
Whose    dear-bought    skill    unclasps    the    miser's 

hand, 

Turn  from  thy  fatal  quest,  nor  cast  away 
That  life  so  precious ;  let  a  meaner  prey 
Feed  the  destroyer's  hunger ;  live  to  bless 
Those  happier  homes  that  need  thy  care  no  less  ! 

Smiling  he  listens ;  has  he  then  a  charm 
Whose  magic  virtues  peril  can  disarm  ? 


396        MEDICAL   SOCIETY  DINNER. 

No  safeguard  his  ;  no  amulet  he  wears, 

Too  well  he  knows  th;it  Xature  never  spares 

Her  truest  servant,  powerless  to  defend 

From  her  own  weapons  her  unshrinking  friend. 

He  dares  the  fate  the  bravest  well  might  shun, 

Nor  asks  reward  save  only  Heaven's  "  Well  done  !  " 

Sueh  are  the  toils,  the  perils  that  lie  knows, 
Days  without  rest  and  nights  without  repose, 
Yet  all  unheeded  for  the  love  he  bears 
His  art,  his  kind,  whose  every  grief  he  shares. 

Harder  than  these  to  know  how  small  the  part 
Nature's  proud  empire  yields  to  striving  Art; 
How,  as  the  tide  that  rolls  around  the  sphere 
Laughs  at  the  mounds  that  delving  arms  uprear,  — 
Spares  some  few  roods  of  oozy  earth,  but  still 
Wastes  and  rebuilds  the  planet  at  its  will, 
Comes  at  its  ordered  season,  night  or  noon, 
Led  by  the  silver  magnet  of  the  moon,  — 
So  life's  vast  tide  forever  comes  and  goes, 
Unchecked,  resistless,  as  it  ebbs  and  flows. 

Hardest  of  all,  when  Art  has  done  her  best, 
To  find  the  cuckoo  brooding  in  her  nest ; 
The  shrewd  adventurer,  fresh  from  parts  unknown, 
Kills  off  the  patients  Science  thought  her  own  ; 
Towns  from  a  nostrum-vender  get  their  name, 
Fences  and  walls  the  cure-all  drug  proclaim, 
Plasters  and  pads  the  willing  world  beguile, 
Fair  Lydia  greets  us  with  astringent  smile, 
Munchausen's  fellow-countryman  unlocks 
His  new  Pandora's  globule-holding  box, 
And  as  King  George  inquired  with  puzzled  grin 
"  How  — how  the  devil  get  the  apple  in  ?  " 


MEDICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER.        397 

So  we  ask  how,  —  with  wonder-opening  eyes,  — 
Such  pygmy  pills  can  hold  such  giant  lies ! 

Yes,  sharp  the  trials,  stern  the  daily  tasks 
That  suffering  Nature  from  her  servant  asks  ; 
His  the  kind  office  dainty  menials  scorn, 
His  path  how  hard,  —  at  every  step  a  thorn  ! 
What  does  his  saddening,  restless  slavery  buy, 
What  save  a  right  to  live,  a  chance  to  die,  — 
To  live  companion  of  disease  and  pain, 
To  die  by  poisoned  shafts  untimely  slain  ? 

Answer  from  hoary  eld,  majestic  shades,  — 
From  Memphian  courts,  from  Delphic  colonnades, 
Speak  in  the  tones  that  Persia's  despot  heard 
When  nations  treasured  every  golden  word 
The  wandering  echoes  wafted  o'er  the  seas, 
From  the  far  isle  that  held  Hippocrates  ; 
And  thou,  best  gift  that  Pergamus  conld  send 
Imperial  Rome,  her  noblest  Cesar's  friend, 
Master  of  masters,  whose  unchallenged  sway 
Not  bold  Vesalius  dared  to  disobey  ; 
Ye  who  while  prophets  dreamed  of  dawning  times 
Taught  your  rude  lessons  in  Salerno's  rhymes, 
And  ye,  the  nearer  sires,  to  whom  we  owe 
The  better  share  of  all  the  best  we  know, 
In  every  land  an  ever-growing  train, 
Since  wakening  Science  broke  her  rusted  chain,  — 
Speak  from  the  past,  and  say  what  prize  was  sent 
To  crown  the  toiling  years  so  freely  spent ! 

List  while  they  speak  : 

In  life's  uneven  road 
Our  willing  hands  have  eased  our  brothers'  load ; 


398  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

One  forehead  smoothed,  one  pang  of  torture  less, 
One  peaceful  hour  a  sufferer's  couch  to  bless, 
The  smile  brought  back  to  fever's  parching  lips, 
The  light  restored  to  reason  in  eclipse, 
Life's  treasure  rescued  like  a  burning  brand 
Snatched    from    the    dread    destroyer's    wasteful 

hand, — 

Such  were  our  simple  records  day  by  day, 
For  gains  like  these  we  wore  our  lives  away. 
In  toilsome  paths  our  daily  bread  we  sought, 
But  bread  from  Heaven  attending  angels  brought ; 
Pain  was  our  teacher,  speaking  to  the  heart, 
Mother  of  pity,  nurse  of  pitying  art ; 
Our  lesson  learned,  we  reached  the  peaceful  shore 
Where  the  pale  sufferer  asks  our  aid  no  more,  — 
These  gracious  words  our  welcome,  our  reward, 
Ye   served   your  brothers;   ye   have   served  your 

Lord! 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

READ  AT   THE    CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION  OF  THE 
FOUNDATION   OF   PHILLIPS  ACADEMY,  ANDOVER. 

1778-1878. 

fjHESE  hallowed  precincts,  long  to  mem 
ory  dear, 
Smile  with  fresh  welcome  as  our  feet 

draw  near  ; 
With  softer  gales  the  opening  leaves  are  fanned, 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY.  399 

With  fairer  hues  the  kindling  flowers  expand, 
The  rose-bush  reddens  with  the  blush  of  June, 
The  groves  are  vocal  with  their  minstrels'  tune, 
The  mighty  elm,  beneath  whose  arching  shade 
The  wandering  children  of  the  forest  strayed, 
Greets  the  bright  morning  in  its  bridal  dress, 
And  spreads  its  arms  the  gladsome  dawn  to  bless. 

Is  it  an  idle  dream  that  nature  shares 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  pastimes,  and  our  cares'? 
Is  there  no  summons  when,  at  morning's  call, 
The  sable  vestments  of  the  darkness  fall  ? 
Does  not  meek  evening's  low-voiced  Ave  blend 
With  the  soft  vesper  as  its  notes  ascend? 
Is  there  no  whisper  in  the  perfumed  air, 
When  the  sweet  bosom  of  the  rose  is  bare  ? 
Does  not  the  sunshine  call  us  to  rejoice  ? 
Is  there  no  meaning  in  the  storm-cloud's  voice  ? 
No  silent  message  when  from  midnight  skies 
Heaven  looks  upon  us  with  its  myriad  eyes  ? 

Or  shift  the  mirror ;  say  our  dreams  diffuse 
O'er  life's  pale  landscape  their  celestial  hues, 
Lend  heaven  the  rainbow  it  has  never  known, 
And  robe  the  earth  in  glories  not  its  own, 
Sing  their  own  music  in  the  summer  breeze, 
With  fresher  foliage  clothe  the  stately  trees, 
Stain  the  June  blossoms  with  a  livelier  dye 
And  spread  a  bluer  azure  on  the  sky,  — 
Blest  be  the  power  that  works  its  lawless  will 
And  finds  tho  weediest  patch  an  Eden  still ; 
No  walls  so  fair  as  those  our  fancies  build,  — 
No  views  so  bright  as  those  our  visions  gild  1 


400  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

So  ran  my  lines,  as  pen  and  paper  met, 
The  truant  goose-quill  travelling  like  Planchette  ; 
Too  ready  servant,  whose  deceitful  ways 
Full  many  a  slipshod  line,  alas  !  betrays  ; 
Hence  of  the  rhyming  thousand  not  a  few 
Have  builded  worse  —  a  great  deal  —  than  they 
knew. 

What  need  of  idle  fancy  to  adorn 
Our  mother's  birthplace  on  her  birthday  morn  ? 
Hers  are  the  blossoms  of  eternal  spring, 
From  these  green  boughs  her  new-fledged  birds  take 

wing, 

These  echoes  hear  their  earliest  carols  sung, 
In  this  old  nest  the  brood  is  ever  young. 
If  some  tired  wanderer,  resting  from  his  flight, 
Amid  the  gay  young  choristers  alight, 
These  gather  round  him,  mark  his  faded  plumes 
That  faintly  still  the  far-off  grove  perfumes, 
And  listen,  wondering  if  some  feeble  note 
Yet  lingers,  quavering  in  his  weary  throat. 
I,  whose  fresh  voice  yon  red-faced  temple  knew, 
What  tune  is  left  me,  fit  to  sing  to  you  ? 
Ask  not  the  grandeurs  of  a  labored  song, 
But  let  my  easy  couplets  slide  along  ; 
Much  could  I  tell  you  that  yon  know  too  well ; 
Much  I  remember,  but  I  will  not  tell ; 
Age  brings  experience  ;  gray  beards  oft  are  wise, 
But  oli !  how  sharp  a  youngster's  ears  and  eyes  ! 

My  cheek  was  bare  of  adolescent  down 
When  first  I  sought  the  academic  town; 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY.  401 

Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty  road, 

Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load; 

The  frequent  hills,  the  lonely  woods  are  past, 

The  school-boy's  chosen  home  is  reached  at  last. 

I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 

The  swinging  gate,  the  little  garden  plot, 

The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that  made  its  floor, 

The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-garnished  door, 

The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous,  chill, 

The  strange,  new  faces,  kind,  but  grave  and  still  ; 

Two,  creased  with  age,  —  or  what  I  then  called 

age,  — 

Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page  ; 
One,  a  shy  maiden's,  pallid,  placid,  sweet 
As  the  first  snow-drop  which  the  sunbeams  greet  ; 
One  the  last  nursling's  ;  slight  she  was,  and  fair, 
Her  smooth  white  forehead  warmed  with  auburn 

hair; 

Last  came  the  virgin  Hymen  long  had  spared, 
Whose  daily  cares  the  grateful  household  shared, 
Strong,  patient,  humble;  her  substantial  frame 
Stretched  the  chaste  draperies  I  forbear  to  name. 

Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school-boy  come 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  a  stranger's  home  ; 
How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 
Came  the  dry  summons,  "  It  is  time  to  part; 
"  Good  -  by !  "  "  Goo  —  ood  -  by !  "  one  fond  mater 
nal  kiss 

Homesick  as  death  !     Was  ever  pang  like  this  ? 
Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to  stray 
From  the  tame  fireside,  glad  to  get  away,  — 

vofc.  ii.       26 


402  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear,  — 
And  what  so  bitter  as  a  swallowed  tear ! 

One  figure  still  my  vagrant  thoughts  pursue  ; 
First  boy  to  greet  me,  Ariel,  where  are  you  ? 
Imp  of  all  mischief,  heaven  alone  knows  how 
You  learned  it  all,  —  are  you  an  angel  now, 
Or  tottering  gently  down  the  slope  of  years, 
Your  face  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears  ? 
Forgive  my  freedom  if  you  are  breathing  still ; 
If  in  a  happier  world,  I  know  you  will.    • 
You  were  a  school-boy,  —  what  beneath  the  sun 
So  like  a  monkey  ?     I  was  also  one. 

Strange,  sure  enough,  to  see  what  curious  shoots 
The  nursery  raises  from  the  study's  roots  ! 
In  those  old  days  the  very,  very  good 
Took    up    more     room,  —  a    little,  —  than    they 

should  ; 

Something  too  much  one's  eyes  encountered  then 
Of  serious  youth  and  funeral-visaged  men; 
The  solemn  elders  saw  life's  mournful  half,  — 
Heaven  sent  this  boy,  whose  mission  was  to  laugh, 
Drollest  of  buffos,  Nature's  odd  protest, 
A  catbird  squealing  in  a  blackbird's  nest. 

Kind,   faithful  Nature  !     While    the  sour-eyed 

Scot,  — 

Her  cheerful  smiles  forbidden  or  forgot,  — 
Talks  only  of  his  preacher  and  his  kirk,  — 
Hears  five-hour  sermons  for  his  Sunday  work,  — 
Praying  and  fasting  till  his  meagre  face 
Gains  its  due  length,  the  genuine  sign  of  grace,  — 
An  Ayrshire  mother  in  the  land  of  Knox 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY.  403 

Her  embryo  poet  in  his  cradle  rocks ;  — 
Nature,  long  shivering  in  her  dim  eclipse, 
Steals  in  a  sunbeam  to  those  baby  lips ; 
So  to  its  home  her  banished  smile  returns, 
And  Scotland  sweetens  with  the  song  of  Burns  ! 

The  morning  came;  I  reached  the  classic  hall; 
A  clock-face  eyed  me,  staring  from  the  wall ; 
Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read  : 
YOUTH  is    LIFE'S   SEED-TIME  :    so  the   clock-face 

said  : 

Some  took  its  counsel,  as  the  sequel  showed,  — 
Sowed,  —  their  wild  oats,  —  and  reaped   as  they 

had  sowed. 
How    all    comes   back  !    the    upward    slanting 

floor,  — 

The  masters'  thrones  that  flank  the  central  door, — 
The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  divide 
The  rows  of  desks  that  stand  on  either  side,  — 
The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 
Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common,  picturesque. 

Grave  is  the  Master's  look ;  his  forehead  wears 
Thick  rows  of  wrinkles,  prints  of  worrying  cares  ; 
Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 
His  most  of  all  whose  kingdom  is  a  school. 
Supreme  he  sits  ;  before  the  awful  frown 
That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye  goes  down ; 
Not  more  submissive  Israel  heard  and  saw 
At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 

Less  stern  he  seems,  who  sits  in  equal  state 
On    the    twin     throne   and    shares    the    empire's 

weight ; 


404  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

Around  his  lips  the  subtle  life  that  plays 
Steals  quaintly  forth  in  many  a  jesting  phrase ; 
A  lightsome  nature,  not  so  hard  to  chafe, 
Pleasant    when    pleased  ;    rough  handled,   not    so 

safe  ; 

Some  tingling  memories  vaguely  I  recall, 
But  to  forgive  him.     God  forgive  us  all ! 

One  yet  remains,  whose  well-remembered  name 
Pleads  in  my  grateful  heart  its  tender  claim  ; 
His  was  the  charm  magnetic,  the  bright  look 
That  sheds  its  sunshine  on  the  dreariest  book  ; 
A  loving  soul  to  every  task  he  brought 
That  sweetly  mingled  with  the  lore  he  taught ; 
Sprung  from  a  saintly  race  that  never  could 
From  youth  to  age  be  anything  but  good, 
His  few  brief  years  in  holiest  labors  spent, 
Earth  lost  too  soon  the  treasure  heaven  had  lent. 
Kindest  of  teachers,  studious  to  divine 
Some  hint  of  promise  in  my  earliest  line, 
These  faint  and  faltering   words  thou  can'st  not 

hear 
Throb  from  a  heart  that  holds  thy  memory  dear. 

As  to  the  traveller's  eye  the  varied  plain 
Shows  through  the  window  of  the  flying  train, 
A  mingled  landscape,  rather  felt  than  seen, 
A  gravelly  bank,  a  sudden  flash  of  green, 
A  tangled  wood,  a  glittering  stream  that  flows 
Through  the  cleft  summit  where  the  cliff  once  rose, 
All  strangely  blended  in  a  hurried  gleam, 
Rock,    wood,    waste,    meadow,    village,     hillside, 

stream,  — 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY.  405 

So,  as  we  look  behind  us,  life  appears, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  our  bygone  years. 

Yet  in  the  dead  past's  shadow-filled  domain, 
Some  vanished  shapes  the  hues  of  life  retain  ; 
Unbidden,  oft,  before  our  dreaming  eyes 
From  the  vague  mists  in  memory's  path  they  rise. 
So  comes  his  blooming  image  to  my  view, 
The  friend  of  joyous  days  when  life  was  new, 
Hope  yet  untamed,  the  blood  of  youth  unchilled, 
No  bl.'ink  arrear  of  promise  unfulfilled, 
Life's  flower  yet  hidden  in  its  sheltering  fold, 
Its  pictured  canvas  yet  to  be  unrolled. 
His  the  frank  smile  I  vainly  look  to  greet, 
His   the   warm   grasp   my   clasping    hand   should 

meet  ; 

How  would  our  lips  renew  their  school-boy  talk, 
Our  feet  retrace  the  old  familiar  walk  ! 
For  thee  no  more  earth's  cheerful  morning  shines 
Through  the  green  fringes  of  the  tented  pines  ; 
Ah  me !  is  heaven  so  far  thou  can'st  not  hear, 
Or  is  thy  viewless  spirit  hovering  near, 
A    fair    young   presence,    bright    with   morning's 

glow, 
The  fresh-cheeked  boy  of  fifty  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  fifty  years,  with  all  their  circling  suns, 
Behind  them  all  my  glance  reverted  runs , 
Where  now  that  time  remote,  its  griefs,  its  joys, 
Where  are  its  gray-haired  men,  its  bright-haired 

boys  ? 

Where  is  the  patriarch  time  could  hardly  tire,  — 
The  good  old,  wrinkled,  immemorial  ''squire  '"? 


406  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

(An  honest  treasurer,  like  a  black-plumed  swan, 

Not  every  day  our  eyes  may  look  upon.) 

Where    the   tough  champion   who,   with  Calvin's 

sword, 

In  wordy  conflicts  battled  for  the  Lord  ? 
Where  the  grave  scholar,  lonely,  calm,  austere, 
Whose  voice  like  music  charmed  the  listening  ear, 
Whose  light  rekindled,  like  the  morning-star 
Still  shines  upon  us  through  the  gates  ajar  ? 
Where  the  still,  solemn,  weary,  sad-eyed  man, 
Whose  care-worn  face  my  wandering  eyes  would 

scan,  — 

His  features  wasted  in  the  lingering  strife 
With  the  pale  foe  that  drains  the  student's  life  ? 
Where  my  old  friend,  the  scholar,  teacher,  saint, 
Whose    creed,   some   hinted,   showed   a   speck  of 

taint  ; 

He  broached  his  own  opinion,  which  is  not 
Lightly  to  be  forgiven  or  forgot ; 
Some  riddle's  point,  —  I  scarce  remember  now,  — 
Homo/,  perhaps,  where  they  said  homo  —  ou. 
(If  the  unlettered  greatly  wish  to  know 
Where  lies  the  difference  betwixt  oi  and  o, 
Those  of  the  curious  who  have  time  may  search 
Among  the  stale  conundrums  of  their  church.) 
Beneath  his  roof  his  peaceful  life  I  shared, 
And  for  his  modes  of  faith  I  little  cared,  — 
I,  taught  to  judge  men's  dogmas  by  their  deeds, 
Long  ere  the  days  of  india  rubber  creeds. 

Why  should  we  look  one  common  faith  to  find, 
Where  one  in  every  score  is  color-blind? 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY.  407 

If  here  ou  earth  they  know  not  red  from  green, 
Will  they  see  better  into  things  unseen  ! 

Once  more  to  time's  old  graveyard  I  return 
And  scrape  the  moss  from  memory's  pictured  urn. 
Who,  in  these  days  when  all  things  go  by  steam 
Recalls  the  stage-coach  with  its  four-horse  team  ? 
Irs  sturdy  driver,  — who  remembers  him  ? 
Or  the  old  landlord,  saturnine  and  grim, 
Who  left  our  hill-top  for  a  new  abode 
And  reared  his  sign-post  farther  down  the  road  ? 
Still  in  the  waters  of  the  dark  Shawshine 
Do  the  young  bathers  splash  and   think  they  're 

clean  ? 

Do  pilgrims  find  their  way  to  Indian  Ridge, 
Or  journey  onward  to  the  far-off  bridge, 
And  bring  to  younger  ears  the  story  back 
Of  the  broad  stream,  the  mighty  Merrimac  ? 
Are  there  still  truant  feet  that  stray  beyond 
These   circling    bounds   to   Pomp's    or   Raggett's 

Pond, 

Or  where  the  legendary  name  recalls 
The  forest's  earlier  tenant,  —  "  Deer-jump  Falls  "  ? 

Yes,  every  nook  these  youthful  feet  explore, 
Just  as  our  sires  and  grandsires  did  of  yore  ; 
So  all  life's  opening  paths,  where  nature  led 
Their  fathers'  feet,  the  children's  children  tread. 
Roll  the  round  century's  five  score  years  away, 
Call  from  our  storied  past  that  earliest  day 
When  great  Eliphalet  (I  can  see  him  now,  — 
Big    name,    big    frame,    big  voice,   and   beetling 

brow), 


408  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

Then  young  Eliphalet,  —  ruled  the  rows  of  boys 
111  homespun  gray  or  old-world  corduroys,  — 
And  save  for  fashion's  whims,  the  benches  show 
The  self-same  youths,  the  very  boys  we  know. 
Time  works  strange  marvels  :  since  I  trod  the  green 
And  swung  the  gates,  what  wonders  I  have  seen  ! 
But  come  what  will,  —  the  sky  itself  may  fall,  — 
As  things  of  course  the  boy  accepts  them  all. 
The  prophet's  chariot,  drawn  by  steeds  of  flame, 
For  daily  use  our  travelling  millions  claim; 
The  face  we  love  a  sunbeam  makes  our  own  ; 
No  more  the  surgeon  hears  the  sufferer's  groan  ; 
What  unwrit  histories  wrapped  in  darkness  lay 
Till  shovelling  Schliemann  bared  them  to  the  day  ! 
Your  Richelieu  says,  and  says  it  well,  my  lord, 
The  pen  is  (sometimes)  mightier  than  the  sword  ; 
Great  is  the  goosequill,  say  we  all ;  Amen  ! 
Sometimes  the  spade  is  mightier  than  the  pen ; 
It  shows  where  Babel's  terraced  walls  were  raised, 
The   slabs    that    cracked  when    Nimrod's   palace 

blazed, 

Unearths  Mycenae,  rediscovers  Troy,  — 
Calmly  he  listens,  that  immortal  boy. 
A  new  Prometheus  tips  our  wands  with  fire, 
A  mightier  Orpheus  strains  the  whispering  wire, 
Whose  lightning  thrills  the  lazy  winds  outrun 
And  hold  the  hours  as  Joshua  stayed  the  sun,  — 
So  swift,  in  truth,  we  hardly  find  a  place 
For  those  dim  fictions  known  as  time  and  space. 
Still  a  new  miracle  each  year  supplies, — 
See  at  his  work  the  chemist  of  the  skies, 


THK  SCHOOL-BOY.  409 

Who  questions  Sirius  in  his  tortured  rays 
And  steals  the  secret  of  the  solar  blaze  ; 
Hush!  while  the  window-rattling  bugles  play 
The  nation's  airs  a  hundred  miles  away  ! 
That  wicked  phonograph  !  hark  !  how  it  swears  ! 
Turn  it  again  and  make  it  say  its  prayers ! 
And  was  it  true,  then,  what  the  story  said 
Of  Oxford's  friar  and  his  brazen  head  1 
While  wandering  Science  stands,  herself  perplexed 
At  each  day's  miracle,  and  asks  "  What  next  ? " 
The  immortal  boy,  the  coming  heir  of  all, 
Springs  from  his  desk  to  "urge  the  flying  ball," 
Cleaves  with  his  bending  oar  the  glassy  waves, 
With  sinewy  arm  the  dashing  current  braves, 
The  same  bright  creature  in  these  haunts  of  ours 
That  Eton  shadowed  with  her  "antique  towers." 

Boy  !     Where  is  he  ?  the  long-limbed  youth  in* 

quires, 

Whom  his  rough  chin  with  manly  pride  inspires ; 
Ah,  when  the  ruddy  cheek  no  longer  glows, 
When  the  bright  hair  is  white  as  winter  snows, 
When  the  dim  eye  has  lost  its  lambent  flame, 
Sweet  to  his  ear  will  be  his  school-boy  name ! 
Nor  think  the  difference  mighty  as  it  seems 
Between  life's  morning  and  its  evening  dreams  ; 
Fourscore,  like  twenty,  has  its  tasks  and  toys ; 
In  earth's  wide  school-house  all  are  girls  and  boys. 

Brothers,  forgive  my  wayward  fancy.     Who 
Can  guess  beforehand  what  his  pen  will  do  ? 


410  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

Too  light  my  strain  for  listeners  such  as  these, 
Whom  graver  thoughts  and  soberer  speech  shall 

please. 

Is  he  not  here  whose  breath  of  holy  song- 
Has  raised  the  downcast  eyes  of  faith  so  long  7 
Are  they  not  here,  the  strangers  in  your  gates, 
For  whom  the  wearied  ear  impatient  waits,  — 
The  large-brained  scholars   whom  their   toils  re 
lease,  — 
The  bannered  heralds  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ? 

Such   wns  the  gentle   friend   whose  youth  un- 

blamed 

In  years  long  past  our  student-benches  claimed  ; 
Whose  name,  illumined  on  the  sacred  page, 
Lives  in  the  labors  of  his  riper  age  ; 
Such  he  whose  record  time's  destroying  march 
Leaves  uneffaced  on  Zion's  springing  arch  : 
Not  to  the  scanty  phrase  of  measured  song, 
Cramped  in  its  fetters,  names  like  these  belong ; 
One  ray  they  lend  to  gild  my  slender  line  — 
Their  praise  I  leave  to  sweeter  lips  than  mine. 

Home  of  our  sires,  where  learning's  temple  rose, 
While  yet  they  struggled  with  their  banded  foes, 
As  in  the  West  thy  century's  sun  descends, 
One  parting  gleam  its  dying  radiance  lends. 
Darker  and  deeper  though  the  shadows  fall 
From  the  gray  towers  on  Doubting  Castle's  wall, 
Though  Pope  and  Pagan  re-array  their  hosts, 
And  her  new  armor  youthful  Science  boasts, 


THE  SILENT  MELODY.  411 

Truth,  for  whose  altar  rose  this  holy  shrine, 
Shall  fly  for  refuge  to  these  bowers  of  thine  ; 
No  past  shall  chain  her  with  its  rusted  vow, 
No  Jew's  phylactery  bind  her  Christian  brow, 
But  Faith  shall  smile  to  find  her  sister  free, 
And  nobler  manhood  draw  its  life  from  thce. 

Long  as  the  arching  skies  above  thee  spread, 
As  on  thy  groves  the  dews  of  heaven  are  shed, 
With  currents  widening  still  from  year  to  year, 
And  deepening  channels,  calm,  untroubled,  clear, 
Flow  the  twin  streamlets  from  thy  sacred  hill,  — 
Pieria's  fount  and  Siloam's  shaded  rill ! 


THE   SILENT  MELODY. 


RING  me  my  broken  harp,"  he  said  ; 
"  We   both  are  wrecks,  —  but   as  ye 

will,  — 
Though  all  its  ringing  tones  have  fled, 


Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still ; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long,  —  how  long  !  —  ago. 

'  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 

I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 
Scarce  can  my  trembling  ringers  hold 

The  pillared  frame  so  long  their  own  ; 
We  both  are  wrecks,  —  a  while  ago 
It  had  some  silver  strings,  I  know, 


412  THE  SILENT  MELODY. 

"  But  on  them  Time  too  long  has  played 

The  solemn  strain  that  knows  no  change, 

And  where  of  old  my  fingers  strayed 

The  chords  they  find  are  new  and  strange,  — 

Yes  !  iron  strings,  —  I  know,  —  I  know,  — 

We  both  are  wrecks  of  long  ago. 

"We  both  are  wrecks,  — a  shattered  pair,  — 
Strange  to  ourselves  in  time's  disguise  .... 

What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 
That  brought  the  tears  from  Marian's  eyes  ? 

Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under  breasts  of  snow 

Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago  ! 

"  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-song's  crash 

That  from  his  dreams  the  soldier  woke, 
And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 

When  battle's  cloud  in  thunder  broke '?.... 
Wrecks,  —  nought  but  wrecks  !  —  the  time  was 

when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men  !  " 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 

With  pitying  smiles  that  none  could  blame ; 

Alas  !  there  's  not  a  single  string 

Of  all  that  filled  the  tarnished  frame  ! 

But  see  !  like  children  overjoyed, 

His  fingers  rambling  through  the  void  ! 

"  I  clasp  thee  !   Ay  ....  mine  ancient  lyre  .... 
Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers  ....  There  ! 


THE   SILENT  MELODY.  413 

They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 

As  Isaac  played  with  Esau's  hair  .  .  .  , 
Hush  !  ye  shall  hear  the  famous  tune 
That  Marian  called  The  Breath  of  June  !  " 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round  : 

Rapt  in  his  tuneful  trance  he  seems  : 
His  fingers  move  :  but  not  a  sound  ! 

A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams 

•'  There  !  ye  have  heard  the  air,"  he  cries, 

:i  That  brought  the  tears  from  Marian's  eyes  !  " 

Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 
Nor  deem  his  fancy  wrought  in  vain  ; 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet,  —    W 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 
When  Nature's  music  breathes  unsought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So  truly  shape  our  tenderest  thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 

Our  fingers  sweep  the  stringless  lyre  ! 


NOTES. 


Vol.  L,  p.  3. 
"  OLD  IRONSIDES." 

This  was  the  popular  name  by  which  the  frigate 
"Constitution"  was  known.  The  poem  was  first 
printed  in  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser,  at  the  time 
when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  the  old  ship  as  unfit 
for  service. 

Vol.  L,  p.  8. 

"THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD." 

"  The  Goblet  and  the  Sun  "  (Vas-Sol),  sculptured  on 
a  freestone  slab  supported  by  five  pillars,  are  the  only 
designation  of  the  family  tomb  of  the  Vassalls. 

Vol.  L,  p.  60. 

u  Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar.'11 
Charles  Chauncy  Emerson ;  died  May  9,  1836. 

Vol.  L,  p.  61.    9 
li  And  tliou,  dear  friend." 
James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D. ;  died  March  28,  1834. 


416  NOTES. 

Vol.  I.,  p.  129. 
"Hark!    The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound.'" 

The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which  follow 
are:  — 

1.  "King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of  which  was 
laid  by  Governor  Shirley  in  1749. 

2.  Brattle  Street  Church,  consecrated  in  1773.     The 
completion  of  this  edirice,  the  design  of  which  included 
a  spire,  was  prevented  by  the  troubles  of  the  Revolu 
tion,   and  its  plain,   square  tower  presented  nothing 
more  attractive  than  a  massive  simplicity.    In  the  front 
of  this  tower  was  seen,  half  imbedded  in  the  brick-work, 
a  cannon-ball,  which  was  thrown  from  the  American 
fortifications  at  Cambridge,  during  the  bombardment 
of  the  city,  then  occupied  by  the  British  troops. 

3.  The  "Old  South,"  first  occupied  for  public  wor 
ship  in  1730- 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809,  the  tall  white 
steeple  of  which  is  the  most  conspicuous  of  all  the  old 
Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship  in  1723, 
and  containing  a  set  of  eight  bells,  until  of  late  years 
the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

Vol.  I.,  p.  217. 
AGNES. 

The  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and  Agnes  Sur- 
raige  is  told  in  tye  ballad  with  a  very  strict  adhesion  to 
the  facts.  These  were  obtained  from  information  af 
forded  me  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Webster  of  Hopkinton,  in 
company  with  whom  I  visited  the  Frankland  Mansion 


NOTES.  417 

in  that  town;  from  a  very  interesting  Memoir,  by  the 
Kev.  Elias  Nason  of  Medford,  not  yet  published;  and 
from  the  manuscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or  more  prop 
erly  Sir  Charles  Henry  Frankland,  now  in  the  library 
of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old  Julia  was  liv 
ing,  and  on  our  return  we  called  at  the  house  where 
she  resided.1  Her  account  is  little  more  than  para 
phrased  in  the  poem.  If  the  incidents  are  treated  with 
a  certain  liberality  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  part,  the  es 
sential  fact  that  Agnes  rescued  Sir  Harry  from  the  ruins 
after  the  earthquake,  and  their  subsequent  marriage  as 
related,  may  be  accepted  as  literal  truth.  So  with  re 
gard  to  most  of  the  trifling  details  which  are  given; 
they  are  taken  from  the  record. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Nason's  Memoir 
will  be  published,  that  this  extraordinary  romance  of 
our  sober  New  England  life  may  become  familiar  to 
that  class  of  readers  who  prefer  a  rigorous  statement  to 
an  embellished  narrative.  It  will  be  found  to  contain 
many  historical  facts  and  allusions  which  add  much  to 
its  romantic  interest. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  Frankland  Man 
sion  no  longer  exists.  It  was  accidentally  burned  on  the 
23d  of  January,  1858,  a  year  or  two  after  the  first  sketch 
of  this  ballad  was  written.  A  visit  to  it  was  like  step 
ping  out  of  the  century  into  the  years  before  the  Revo 
lution.  A  new  house,  similar  in  plan  and  arrangements 
to  the  old  one,  has  been  built  upon  its  site,  and  the  ter 
races,  the  clump  of  box,  and  the  lilacs,  doubtless  re 
main  to  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  story. 

1  She  was  living  June  10,  1861,  when  this  ballad  was  pub 
lished. 

VOL   ii.          27 


418  NOTES. 

Since  the  above  note  was  written  the  Eev.  Mr.  Na- 
son's  interesting  Memoir  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  has 
been  published. 

Vol.  II.,  p.  306. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE. 
"  They  're  as  safe  as  Dan? I  Malcolm." 

The  following  epitaph  is  still  to  be  read  on  a  tall 
gravestone  standing  as  yet  undisturbed  among  the 
transplanted  monuments  of  the  dead  in  Copprs  Hill 
Burial-ground,  one  of  the  three  city  cemeteries  which 
have  been  desecrated  and  ruined  within  my  own  re 
membrance  :  — 

"  Here  lies  biiried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep, 

Cap*  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 

Who  departed  this  Life 

October  23d,  1769, 

Aged  44  years, 

a  true  son  of  Liberty, 

a  Friend  to  the  Publick, 

an  Enemy  to  oppression, 

and  one  of  the  foremost 

in  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 

on  America." 


r 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

"Ad  Amicos" .  ii.  123 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (1837-1848)         .        .        .        .  i.  63 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (to  1877)         .        .        .        .        .  ii.  279 

Address  for  Opening  of  Fifth  Ave.  Theatre    .        .  ii.  249 

Estivation    .        .        .        .                 ,        .        .        .  i.  412 

After-Dinner  Poem,  An    .        .        .        .  .      ,        .  i.  148 

After  a  Lecture  on  Keats i.  305 

After  a  Lecture  on  Moore         .        .  '              .        .  i.  303 

After  a  Lecture  on  Shelly i.  307 

After  a  Lecture  on  Wordsworth       .        .        .        r  i.  299 

After  the  Fire                .  ii.  171 

Agnes .        .  i.  217 

Album  Verses       .        .        .        .        .        .  j.  403 

All  here     ......  ii  90 

America  to  Russia         .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  195 

American  Academy  Centennial  Celebration     .         .  ii.  384 

Appeal  for  the  Old  South,  An ii.  330 

Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias,  The  .        .        .        .        .  ii.  137 

Army  Hymn i.  374 

Atlantic  Dinner,  At  the    .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  290 

Aunt,  My t  [  14. 

Aunt  Tabitha .        .  ii.  g 

Avis i.  336 

Bachelor's  Private  Journal,  From  a         .        .        .  i.  183 

Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea  Party,  A               .        .        .  ii.  173 


420  INDEX. 

PAGE 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman.  The          ....  i.  201 

Banker's  Dinner,  The  . i.  268 

Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  At  the      .         .  ii.  198 

Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Emhassy,  At  the    .         .         .  ii.  201 

Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy,  At  the      .        .  ii:  203 

Bells,  The .  i.  251 

Benjamin  Pierce .  ii.  150 

Bill  and  Joe  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  49 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster i.  330 

Birthday  Festival,  At  a i.  341 

Birthday  Tribute,  A i.  342 

Blank  Sheet  of  Paper,  To  a         .                                 .  i.  197 

Boston  Common i.  361 

Boston  to  Florence ii.  368 

Boys,  The ii.  66 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament i.  369 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday ii.  206 

Burns  Centennial  Celebration,  For  the  i.  359 

Caged  Lion,  To  a i.  173 

Cambridge  Churchyard,  The i.  6 

Canaan,  To ii.  181 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The    ...  i.  385 

Chanson  without  Music    ....  ii.  267 

"  Choose  you  this  Day v       .         .         .  ii.  76 

Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg,  To  .        .  ii.  217 

Close  of  a  Course  of  Lectures,  At  the         .                .  i-  308 

Comet,  The i.  25 

Coming  Era,  The .  ii.  369 

Companions,  To  my  .......  i- 195 

Contentment         .         . i-  409 

Crooked  Footpath,  The     .        .        .        .    '    .        .  i-  430 

Daily  Trials i.  17 

De  Sauty i.  441 

Dedication  of  the  Halleck  Monument,  At  the   .        .  ii-  240 

Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Cemetery      .        .        .  i.  289 

Departed  Days i-  82 


INDEX.  421 

PAGE 

Dilemma,  The       »,.....        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  12 

Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut,  At  a   .        .        .        .  ii.  212 

Dinner  to  General  Grant,  At  a ii.  210 

Disappointed  Statesman,  The i.  283 

Dorchester  Giant,  The i.  21 

Dorothy  Q ii.  103 

Dying  Seneca,  The i.  1S1 

EARLIER  POEMS          .        . i.  1 

Edward  Everett ii.  228 

English  Friend,  To  an               .        .        .        .        .  i.  290 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series       .        .  ii.  42 

Even  Song ii.  102 

Evening,  by  a  Tailor    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  19 

Evening  Thought,  An       ......  i.  208 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem i.  Ill 

Familiar  Letter,  A    . ii.  318 

Family  Record,  A ii.  340 

Fantasia ,        .  ii.  7 

Farewell  to  Agassiz,  A ii.  284 

Farewell  to  J.  R.  Lowell  .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  324 

First  Fan,  The      .        .        ...        .        .        .  ii.  332 

First  Verses       .       ........        .  ii.  347 

Flower  of  Liberty,  The        ...        .        .        .  i.  376 

For  Class  Meeting     .....        .        ...  ii.  120 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprietors  of  Bos 
ton  Pier     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  269 

For  the  Commemoration  Services  ii.  224 

Fountain  of  Youth,  The      .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  275 

Freedom,  Our  Queen         .        ...        ,        .  i.  373 

F.  W.C .        .  ii.  79 

George  Peabody,  To ii.  361 

God  save  the  Flag ii.  188 

Good  Time  Going,  A         .        .        .        .                 .  i.  405 

Governor  Swain,  To     .......  i.  294 

Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle  .         .  ii.  301 

Gray  Chief,  The    .        .        ...        .        .         ,  i.  344 


422  INDEX. 

PAGE 

II.  C.  M.,  II.  S.,  J.  K  TV ii.  113 

Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The    .        .     -  .        .        .  i.  34 

Homesick  in  Heaven ii.  3 

Hot  Season,  The i.  205 

How  not  to  settle  it ii.  126 

How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet          .        .        .        .  ii.  323 

Hudson,  The      .        .                 i.  311 

Humboldt:s  Birthday ii.  237 

II.  W.  Longfellow,  To ii.  215 

Hymn  for  the  Class  Meeting        .                                   .  ii.  101 

Hymn  after  Emancipation  Proclamation         .        .  ii.  189 

Hymn  for  the  Chicago  Fair ii.  190 

Hymn  for  the  Laying  of  the  Corner  Stone  of  Har 
vard  Memorial  Hall ii.  242 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Harvard  Memorial 

Hall ii.  243 

Hymn  at  the  Funeral  of  Charles  Sumner       .        .  ii.  244 

Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Andrew  Statue    .  ii.  295 

Hymn  of  Peace,  A ii.  277 

Hymn  of  Trust     ....        .        .        .  i.  429 

Illustration  of  a  Picture i:  177 

Impromptu,  An ii.  56 

In  Response       .        . ii.  371 

IN  THE  QUIET  DATS ii.  159 

IN  WAR  TIME ii.  179 

Insect,  To  an         .         . i.  10 

International  Ode      .        .        .        .                 .        .  i.  366 

Iris,  Her  Book       .         .        . i.  432 

IRON  GATE,  THE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS  ii.  349 

Iron  Gate,  The,     .        .        .. ii.  351 

Island  Hunting  Song,  The i.  81 

Island  Ruin,  The i.  262 

J.  I).  II ii.  72 

James  Freeman  Clarke,  To ii.  380 

Joseph  Warren,  M.  D.       .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  301 

La  Grisette    .  i.  184 


INDEX.  423 

PAGE 

Last  Blossom,  The    - i.  407 

Last  Charge,  The *         .  ii.  82 

Last  Leaf ,  The i-  4 

Last  Look,  The i-  345 

Last  Prophecy  of  Cassandra,  The    ....  i.  179 

Last  Reader,  The i.  36 

Last  Survivor,  The ii.  132 

Latter-day  Warnings i-  402 

Lexington i-  72 

L'lnconnue i-  189 

Lines ii- 68 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Festival         .        .        .  i.  87 

Lines  by  a  Clerk i.  191 

Living  Temple,  The      .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  339 

Lucy ii.  294 

Mare  Rubrum ii.  63 

Martha i.  349 

Massachusetts  Medical  Society,  Poem  for  the  Centen 
nial  Anniversary  Dinner ii.  390 

Meeting  of  the  Dryads,  The i.  161 

Meeting  of  the  American  Medical  Association  .         .  i.  312 

Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club,  For  the       .                 .  i.  325 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College        .        .  i.  350 

Meeting  of  the  National  Sanitary  Association         .  i.  357 

Meeting  of  Friends,  At  a     .        .        .        ,        ..        .  ii.  281 

Memorial  Tribute,  A         ......  ii.  297 

MEMORIAL  VERSES        .       .        .        .       .        .        .  ii.  221 

Memory  of  C.  W.  Upham,  Jr.,  In    .        .        .        .  i.  347 

Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware,  Jr.,  In         .        .  ii.  235 

Midsummer i.  440 

Minds'  Diet,  The i.  256 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS i.  159 

Modest  Request,  A i.  99 

Moore  Centennial,  For  the        '.        .        .        .       *.  ii.  376 

Moral  Bully,  The         .        .        ...                .        .  i.  254 

Mother's  Secret,  A i.  278 


424  INDEX. 

PAGE 

Musa     ...        .      .-.        .        .        .        .        .  i.  390 

Music  Grinders,  The         .        ....        .        .  i.  28 

My  Annual .        .        .  ii.  87 

My  Aviary         .        •.•-••        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  355 

Mysterious  Illness,  The i.  275 

Mysterious  Visitor,  The i.  164 

N  earing  the  Snow  Line ii.  177 

Never  or  Now    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  185 

New  Eden,  The     .        .        ......        .        .        .  i.  317 

Non-Resistance i.  253 

Noontide  Lyric,  A         . i.  203 

Nux  Postcoenatica i.  90 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday i.  328 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting  (with  Alterations)    .        .  i.  423 

Old  Cambridge ii.  312 

Old  Cruiser,  The        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  97 

Old  Ironsides i.  3 

Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  The i.  363 

Old  Man  dreams,  The ii.  57 

Old  Player,  The i.  258 

Old  Year  Song,  An        .        .         .        .        .        .        .  ii.  161 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl i.  75 

On  the  Threshold          . ii.  360 

Once  More ii.  93 

One  Country ii.  187 

One  Hoss  Shay,  The  Wonderful      .        .        .        .  i.  413 

Only  Daughter,  The             i.  83 

Opening  of  the  Piano,  The i.  438 

Opening  the  Window            ......  ii.  155 

Organ  Blower,  The   . ii.  166 

Our  Banker ii.  117 

Our  Home.  —  Our  Country ii.  387 

Our  Indian  Summer              ii.  61 

Our  Limitations i.  257 

Our  Oldest  Friend         .     .  .        .        .     ;.        .        .  ii.83 

Our  Sweet  Singer ii.  Ill 


INDEX.  425 

PAGE 

Our  Yankee  Girls i.  188 

Pantomime,  At  the       .                ii.  168 

Papyrus  Club,  At  the        .......  ii.  302 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy         .        .'                .        .         .  i.  417 

Parting  Health,  A i.  393 

Parting  Hymn i.  375 

Parting  Song,  The i.  355 

Parting  Word,  The i.  113 

Philosopher  to  his  Love,  The i.  193 

PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS       .        .        .        .  i.  243 

Pilgrim :s  Vision,  The        .        ..       .        .        .        .  i.  65 

Ploughman,  The i.  240 

Poem  seryed  to  Order,  A  .        .        .        .        .        .  ii.  272 

POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT i.  383 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR      .        .        .        .        „  i.  425 

POEMS  FROM  THE  POET ii.  1 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  :29 ii.  47 

Poet's  Lot,  The i.  194 

Poetry  ;  a  Metrical  Essay i.  38 

Portrait,  A i.  207 

Portrait  of  a  Gentleman,  To  the      ....  i.  199 

Portrait  of  a  Lady,  To  the i.  23 

Post  Prandial ii.  374 

Programme ii.  156 

Prologue i.  399 

Promise,  The i.  335 

Questions  and  Answers ii.  55 

"  Qui  Vive " .  i.  210 

R.  B.H.,  To ,        .        .  ii.339 

READERS,  To  MY    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  iii. 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian  .        .        .    - .  i.  16 

Remember  —  Forget ii.  59 

Rhymed  Lesson,  A i.  121 

RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR ii.  247 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  M.  D ii.  255 

Robinson  of  Ley  den     .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  435 


426  INDEX. 

PAGE 

Roman  Aqueduct,  A          .  ' i.  182 

School-Boy,  The  .        .        .        .        .        ,        .        .  ii.  399 

Sea  Dialogue,  A         .......  ii.  288 

Secret  of  the  Stars,  The i.  286 

Semi-Centennial  Celebration  of  New  England  Society  i.  322 

Sentiment,  A i.  120 

Sentiment,  A     . i.  316 

September  Gale,  The    .        ." i.  32 

Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln        .        .  ii.  223 

Shadows,  The ii.  148 

Shakespeare ii.  232 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah ii.  85 

Ship  of  State,  The ii.  339 

Silent  Melody,  The ii.  412 

Smiling  Listener,  The ii.  106 

Song  for  Centennial  Celebration  of  Harvard  College.  i.  79 

Song  for  the  Dinner  to  Charles  Dickens  .         .        .  i.  86 

Song  for  a  Temperance  Dinner i.  118 

Song  of  Other  Days,  A i.  116 

Song  of  Twenty-Nine,  A ii  51 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS i.  213 

SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS ii.  153 

SONGS  OP  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL    .       .       .       .  ii.  193 

Souvenir,  A i.  186 

Spectre  Pig,  The i.  169 

Spring i.  245 

Spring  has  come        .......  i.  396 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer i.  437 

Stanzas i.  190 

Star  and  the  Water-lily,  The i.  175 

Steamboat,  The i.  70 

Stethoscope  Song,  The          .        .        ...        .        .1.107 

Study,  The        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i.  248 

Sun  and  Shadow  .        .        .        .        .  -     .        •        .  i.  387 

Sun-day  Hymn.  A     .        .        .        •     •    ••       .        .  i.  429 

Sweet  Little  Man,  The  .        .        .        .  .     .  i.  378 


INDEX.  427 

PAGE 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord ?5 ii.  183 

Toadstool,  The i.  167 

Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins,  A ii.  214 

Treadmill  Song,  The i.  31 

Two  Armies,  The      ....                .  i.  388 

Two  Sonnets  :  Harvard ii.  367 

Two  Streams,  The i.  334 

Under  the  Violets i.  427 

Under  the  Washington  Elm i.  371 

Union  and  Liberty i.  380 

Unsatisfied                 ii.  322 

Verses  for  After-Dinner i  95 

Vestigia  Quinque  Retrorsum ii  141 

VIGNETTES i.  297 

Vive  la  France i.  367 

Voice  of  the  Loyal  Jfortb,  A ii.  70 

Voiceless,  The i.  333 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union          .        .        .        .  ii.  73 

Wasp  and  the  Hornet,  The i.  209 

Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial  Club         .        .  ii.  382 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  ii.  197 

Welcome  to  the  Nations ii.  317 

What  I  have  come  for ii.  115 

What  we  all  think ,        .  i.  394 

Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday,  For        .        .    '    .  ii.  364 

Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts       .        .        .        .  ii.  10 


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